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“Damn!” he exclaimed, and tried the wall switch for the ceiling light. It came on, so the electricity was still working. “For how long, though?” Matt muttered as he left the kitchen.
Walking back into the bedroom, he saw that she’d either fallen asleep or passed out. Or died? No! he thought frantically. She hadn’t been hurt that badly, had she?
Hurrying over to the bed, he again felt for a pulse. Surprisingly it was a little stronger than before. Standing straight again, he rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. What should he do now? Check her head wound and hope to God it was something he could take care of with antibiotic cream and a gauze bandage?
The mud in her hair was already beginning to dry and cake. He would have to clean her hair in some way before dressing the injury. Cautiously he pulled back the comforter a little. If she were a man he wouldn’t hesitate for a second to take off those wet clothes, even if he had to cut them off with a pair of scissors or a knife.
Her gender really didn’t matter, did it? She was a person in distress, a human being like himself, and she was alone and injured. Would he care if a strange woman undressed him under similar circumstances?
Of course not. He was being silly. He had to help her the best he could until he could get hold of Doc Pickett.
Matt strode purposefully from the room to get a pan of warm water and some clean towels and washcloths. He would also bring the first-aid kit back with him.
An hour later Matt was in the kitchen, staring broodingly out the window over the sink. He had a stressful knot in his gut, caused by Ms. X in his guest room. Before undressing and bathing her, his thoughts had been strictly impersonal. Certainly he hadn’t considered her an attractive female, and she was. She was young and pretty and her body was…well, it was perfect, that was the only word for it. Ripe, full breasts, a tiny little waist, long legs and a shapely but firm behind.
He hated the way his mind was working now. He had no right to admire that woman’s sensual good looks. She was reasonably clean now, there was medication and a bandage on the gash he’d located in her thick, dark brown hair, and he’d managed to dress her in a freshly laundered sweat suit of his. It was miles too big—he was six feet three inches tall and she couldn’t be more than five-five—but at least she wouldn’t wake up naked, and it would warm her chilled flesh through and through.
“Hell’s bells,” he mumbled and shot the telephone a dirty look. The lines were still down, and God only knew when the ranch would have phone service again.
The questions in his mind regarding his mysterious guest just kept piling up and getting more urgent. Who was she? Where had she come from? How had she gotten to the ranch last night? How long had she been lying out there in the rain? And what about the chafed bruises on her wrists, as though her hands had been tied to something with a rope? Damnation, all he’d heard in the night was the storm. No telling what had occurred on his own land—and not that far from the house—and he’d been completely oblivious to it. Good Lord, was it possible that one of his men had brought her out here with the intention of forcing himself upon her, and she’d gotten away from him? As discomfiting as that idea was—Matt hated thinking that any of the men living at the ranch and working for him were capable of such a heinous crime—it made as much sense as any other conjecture. After all, that woman hadn’t just materialized with the storm, and with those rope burns on her wrists Matt felt pretty certain that she was a victim of some sort.
But if any of that speculation had credibility, wouldn’t she be grateful that he’d rescued her, at least from the elements? Or was she the type to become hysterical when she realized she was in a strange house with a strange man? A man who’d undressed her and washed the mud from her naked body?
Matt sighed heavily. He was out of his league here. Way out.
Still staring out the window, he spotted Chuck heading for the house, wearing a rain slicker and dodging the deepest puddles. He was carrying something, and when he saw Matt at the window, he raised a hand in a casual salutation.
Then he walked in through the kitchen door. “Hell of a morning,” he said by way of a greeting.
“Hell of a storm,” Matt replied. “Phone’s out, and probably the electricity will go next. What’ve you got there?”
“A woman’s purse. Here’s the mail and yesterday’s newspaper, too.”
Chuck laid the mail and paper on the table, but handed the purse to Matt. “Where do you suppose that came from? It’s got a whole bunch of stuff in it.”
“It does?” Matt opened the purse, saw numerous items and took out a wallet. Flipping it open he found himself looking at a Massachusetts driver’s license photo of the lady he’d rescued. “Her name is Hope LeClaire,” he said quietly.
“Whose name is Hope LeClaire?” Cluck asked with a curious expression.
Matt returned the wallet to the handbag and set it on the table next to the mail and newspaper. Then he looked at his foreman and told him what had taken place that morning.
Chuck was fifty years old, a lifetime cowboy, fiercely loyal to Matt and a kindly man. But he was an observer of mankind and its foibles, and not too much that passed between heaven and earth surprised him. The only thing that really bothered him about the story he’d just heard was that there were red marks—quite likely rope burns—on Hope LeClaire’s wrists.
“This could be serious business, Matt,” he said soberly.
“I’m sure it is. Chuck, we can only guess at what happened to her last night, but how in hell did she end up way out here, on foot and during one of the worst storms we’ve had in years?”
“Have you asked her?”
“The few times she’s said anything at all she seemed to be disoriented. I attributed it to shock and didn’t press her for any answers.”
“Well, you’re looking pretty damned gloomy about it, so I think the next time she opens her eyes you should ask those questions.” Chuck walked over to the outside door. “The men are hanging at the bunkhouse. Anything you want done?”
“Not in this downpour. Tell them Mother Nature gave them a day off. If they can get to town, which I doubt, they might even enjoy the free time.”
Chuck shook his head. “They won’t be going anywhere. The road’s totally gone in some places and flooded in others.”
“You checked it on horseback?”
“Rode as far as that right-angle turn near the dam.”
“You didn’t happen to see a vehicle that might have broken down last night, did you?”
“No, sure didn’t. She’s going to have to tell you how she got here, Matt. It might not be a pretty story, but she’s the only one who knows it. Among the three of us, at any rate. See you later.” Chuck left the house.
Matt wandered restlessly for a while, then looked in on Hope LeClaire. Her eyes were wide-open and she looked back at him.
“Hi.” For her benefit he spoke cheerfully. Entering the room, he approached the bed. “How are you feeling?”
She hesitated, as though she really didn’t know how she was feeling. “I think I’m all right,” she said slowly, “but where am I?”
“I’m Matt McCarlson, and you’re at my ranch.”
“Which is…where?”
Matt frowned. “In Texas, of course.”
“Do we know each other?”
“Considering the fact that I only set eyes on you a few hours ago, I couldn’t say we’re fast friends,” Matt said rather dryly. He was getting a peculiar sensation in his gut, a premonition, actually. “By any chance are you having trouble remembering some things?” Premonition or not, he did not expect what happened next.
Her big blue eyes got teary, and she whispered, “I—I can’t remember anything. Not even my name.”
Matt’s initial reaction was to wonder whether he should believe her. First of all, he was thirty-seven years old, certainly no wide-eyed kid to be taken in by a con game. Second, since the awful experience of his marriage with its tragic demise, he was cautious around the opposite sex. Even enormous blue eyes and a drop-dead body weren’t going to make a sucker out of him.
He remembered the woman’s purse and wallet in the kitchen and knew he had the upper hand. “Hold on a second,” he said a bit smugly, because confronted with such irrefutable evidence of her identity, her con—if that really was what was going on here—would crumple. “I’ve got something you should see. Be right back.”
Hurrying away, he returned in a minute with the purse, which he laid on the blanket near her right hand. “I presume this is yours?”
Hope picked up the purse and looked at it front and back. It was black leather and quite attractive, but it rang no bells. Was it hers? Was there something inside that would tell her who she was?
“Check the wallet inside,” Matt said gruffly.
Hope raised her gaze from the purse to Matt McCarlson. For the first time she really saw him. He was very tall and well-built, a ruggedly handsome man with chestnut hair and brown eyes. If they didn’t know each other, why was she here, in bed at his ranch? Very easily she could panic and fall apart, she knew. She was teetering on the brink of hysteria, terribly frightened and confused because her mind was such a void. But there had to be some answers somewhere, and if she gave in to panic, she might never find them.
What puzzled her, though, was Matt McCarlson’s reluctance to take her seriously. She’d told him that she remembered nothing, not even her name, and he didn’t seem to believe her. Well, pray God there was something in the wallet he’d mentioned that would trigger her memory.
Dropping her eyes to the purse again, she opened it and took out the wallet. She studied the driver’s license, especially the photo, but realized that she had no idea what she looked like.
“Is this a picture of me?” she asked.
“You’re kidding, right?”
Hope could feel her heart harden. What she needed right now was someone who cared that her mind was a terrifying blank.
“If you think I would kid about something so…so ghastly, then you have an extremely warped sense of humor,” she said coldly. Peering under the blankets and sheet, she saw how completely she was clothed, then threw back the covers. “There’s a mirror over there. I’m going to get up and see myself, for myself.”
“Stay put,” Matt growled. “I’ll bring you a hand mirror.”
“Why on earth should I stay put?”
“Because you might fall flat on your face if you got up, that’s why.” He hurried from the room.
Hope frowned. Why was she in bed at all? Well, her head did hurt a little, so maybe she’d already taken a fall. Gingerly she felt the back of her hair and encountered a bandage.
Fear suddenly gripped her, and she put her hand over her mouth as her eyes wildly searched the strange room. She’d only been here a few hours, according to Matt McCarlson. Where had she been before that? The driver’s license was from the state of Massachusetts. What was she doing in Texas, if Massachusetts was home? In particular, how had she ended up on a ranch?
She breathed deeply several times, got her emotions under control and was studying the license photo again when Matt returned and handed her a mirror.
Looking into it, she saw blue eyes and dark hair. It was the face in the photo, though heaven knew that snapshot wasn’t a flattering likeness.
“It’s me,” she said, and bit down on her bottom lip. “I’m Hope LeClaire.” She paused, then murmured, “Hopeless would be a more appropriate name.”
“Knowing your name doesn’t help your memory?” Matt realized he was beginning to believe her, and it didn’t make him happy. What did the medical profession do for amnesiacs? As a layman, what could he do? He’d been in prickly, uncomfortable situations before, but none of them compared to this one.
“No,” she said quietly, though blood was rushing through her veins at a furious pace. “It doesn’t help.” What would help? she thought. Certainly this man, this acquaintance of only a few hours, couldn’t help. Maybe there was more information in the wallet and purse. She pulled some cards from the wallet. “There are credit cards, and this. It reads, ‘In case of emergency, please notify Madelyn LeClaire, mother, and there’s a telephone number.”
“The phone’s dead because of the storm.”
“There’s a storm?”
“It started yesterday and is still going on.”
“Then I guess I can’t call Madelyn, can I? But if she’s my mother and my last name is LeClaire, then I’m not married.”
“There could be exceptions to that rule. A career where you prefer using your maiden name, for instance.”
“Please don’t cite exceptions when I deduce some information about myself,” she said sharply. “How would you like to know absolutely nothing about who you are and then when you think you’ve come up with one tiny piece of data, somebody punches holes in your theory?”
Unaccustomed to chastisement of any kind, Matt felt his spine stiffen defensively. “Forget I said a word. How about something to eat. Are you hungry?”
Hope thought about it. “Yes, I think I am.”
“Bowl of soup and a sandwich sound okay?”
“Anything.”
“Glass of milk or a cup of coffee or tea?”
“Hot tea, please.” She watched Matt McCarlson leave the room, and she sighed, because she felt totally miserable in her ignorance. Truth was, she felt like bawling her eyes out, but what good would it do?
She pulled out the other items in the purse with anxious fingers. Knowing her name was a plus—and her mother’s, who would certainly be able to tell her all about herself—but maybe there were other clues in the purse. To her disappointment, all she found was a small assortment of cosmetics, an unopened chocolate bar, a pocket-size book of crossword puzzles and a pen.
Lying back, she stared at the ceiling. I’m Hope LeClaire and I live in Massachusetts. So what in heaven’s name am I doing in Texas? And why am I in the bed of a man who, by his own admission, has known me for only a few hours?
That was when the trembling started…and the tears…and the panic she’d been battling so hard.
She could no longer keep a lid on the all-consuming fear that had been threatening her sanity, and she turned to her side, buried her head under a pillow and wept.
Chapter Two
I n the kitchen, Matt set the teakettle on the stove to heat water for tea, then started putting together some food for Hope LeClaire. Glancing out the window he could hardly believe it was still raining so hard. He took a moment to try the telephone again, and put down the dead instrument with an impatient grimace.
His gaze fell on the mail and newspaper on the table, and he picked up the paper to check the weather report. But he never got past the front page. In large print the headline read, Newest Stockwell Heiress Missing.
Quickly he read the article and felt his blood pressure rising. The missing heiress’s name was Hope LeClaire, and she had allegedly disappeared from the Grandview, Texas, airport after deplaning. Airline personnel were positive she’d used her ticket to get to Grandview, but no one could recall seeing her in the airport after the arrival of her flight. The Stockwell family had announced a fifty thousand dollar reward for information that would lead authorities to Miss LeClaire, and the newspaper would print a photo of the missing heiress in the next edition.
“Well, isn’t this just great?” Matt mumbled. “Just what I need, another rich woman mucking up my life.”
His attitude was based on his marriage to a woman who had been born and raised to wealth. She’d gotten tired of playing rancher’s wife after only a short stab at married life and had wanted to get back into Texas society. She was about to leave Matt for the son of a rich Texas banking family, but she was killed in a freak accident. Matt had been helping her load her car with her worldly possessions, and they’d been arguing. A Jeep had come flying down their private road, and it had been filled with drunken, joyriding kids. Matt had tried to pull his wife out of the way, but one of the kids shot his leg full of buckshot and he’d fallen before he could pull Trisha to safety. The Jeep crashed, the kids had all been killed, and so had Trisha. Matt had never stopped feeling guilty for their argument and breakup. He had learned to live with community censure, but he’d vowed many times to never get involved with a woman again—especially a rich one as Trisha’s lifestyle had left a bad taste in his mouth.
But he was involved with one now, wasn’t he? She was occupying his guest room, and he was waiting on her hand and foot. And he could only shudder and guess how long they’d be stuck there in his house with the storm still raging and the roads already impassable, plus no phone service.
Not that he couldn’t use fifty thousand bucks. Hell, with that much money he could bring his mortgage payments current with the bank and even catch up on his vendor accounts, all of which were past due. The only bills he paid faithfully every month were his utility bills, and it was a scramble most of the time to do that. His present crew, including Chuck, was about half the number of men he used to have on the payroll, and they were mostly working for room, board and loyalty.
The McCarlson ranch had been a successful operation until a fast-moving virus had spread through the area’s cattle population only last year, financially crippling at least half of the ranches. The owners of those hard-hit operations were struggling to survive, just as Matt was doing. Times were tough now, make no mistake, and Matt worried almost constantly about how much longer he could hang on.
So yes, he could use that reward, but before he told anyone anything about Hope, he had to uncover what happened to her last night. Right was right, after all, and there were a lot of things he wouldn’t do for money. For instance, maybe she didn’t want to be found. Maybe her amnesia was a deliberate ploy to avoid the Stockwell family. Maybe she’d slipped out of the Grandview airport, and…
“Aw, hell.” He could come up with “maybes” until doomsday and never know the truth until it came from Hope’s own lips. But it was possible that her reading this newspaper article and realizing that everyone in the area—including the Stockwells—were on to her disappearing act would bring about a miraculous recovery.
With a wry little shake of his head Matt folded the paper and laid it on the tray he was preparing for Hope. He quickly made a sandwich and warmed a can of soup. The tray was laden with a good lunch—including the hot tea Hope had requested—when Matt carried it to the bedroom she was using.
He stopped at the threshold. Hope was sobbing so hard her back and shoulders were heaving.
If she was faking amnesia she must have a reason, and if she wasn’t, she was in no shape to be reading newspaper articles about herself. He balanced the tray against the wall enough with one hand to remove the paper and drop it in the hall, out of Hope’s sight.
Then he walked in and set the tray on the bureau. “Hope?” Obviously she couldn’t hear him over such intense sobbing, and he sat on the edge of the bed and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Come on, dry your eyes and face whatever it is that’s got you bawling. Not that a good cry doesn’t help one’s disposition at times. Relieves some of the tension that we humans have been fortunate enough to be blessed with.”
Hope felt his big warm hand on her shoulder and found it strangely comforting. She didn’t know him—she knew next to nothing about anything, for that matter—but this man, this stranger, was offering comfort, sympathy and even a bit of cynical humor, and the awful loneliness within her became just a little easier to bear.
Turning over, she wiped her eyes and whispered hoarsely, “I’m sorry.”
“Do you have something to be sorry for?”
“I’m intruding in your home, aren’t I?”
“This bed was just sitting here not doing a thing, and since I’m the only occupant of this house, nothing in it gets much use.”
