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“Hardly a reasonable excuse for your taking in strays,” Hope murmured. The corners of her lips tipped slightly in an effort to force a faint smile, because it was apparent that he was trying to ease the weight of her situation and he deserved some sort of appreciative response. “May—may I ask some questions?”
Matt got up for the tray of food. “Stack the pillows behind your back so you can sit up and eat. As for questions, ask away, but don’t expect too many answers.”
Hope bunched the pillows behind her and sat up. With the tray on her lap, she realized how hungry she was, and she began eating at once.
Matt took a chair and watched her. “A good appetite is a good sign,” he told her.
“It’s the sign of an empty stomach,” she retorted.
He grinned. “Yes, but if you felt lousy otherwise, you probably wouldn’t even notice hunger.”
“I suppose,” she conceded. “You said your name is Matt?”
“Matthew McCarlson. Everyone calls me Matt.”
“And this is what, a cattle ranch?” Matt nodded. Hope added, “In Texas. Where, in Texas?”
“The closest large city is Dallas. The nearest town is Hawthorne. Ring any bells?”
“None. You said you’ve only known me for a few hours. Did I knock on your door?”
“You don’t even remember this morning?”
“My very first memory is of waking up in this bed,” Hope said, speaking so quietly that a chill went up Matt’s spine. He believed her now, though he wasn’t sure exactly why he did. Maybe because she had wept so convincingly, or because she seemed so sincerely unconnected with her present reality? Whatever the reason, he felt certain that this was no con. Hope LeClaire was as clueless about her past as he was. In fact, because of that newspaper article he knew far more about her than she did.
“No,” he said gently. “You didn’t knock on my door. I found you lying in mud near the mailbox this morning. Haven’t you noticed the rain? Well, it rained all night and it’s still coming down.” The shocked expression on her face made Matt feel bad, but he hoped what he was telling her was enough of a shock to jar her memory. “I carried you to the house and put you to bed. Then I tried to call a doctor, but the phones aren’t working. The storm must have brought down some lines.”
“Uh, wait a minute. You put me to bed? Oh, my! These sweats can’t possibly be my own clothes. Did—did you undress me, or did some woman do it for you?”
“There’s not a woman anywhere on the ranch. Sorry, but your own clothes were soggy tatters, and I felt it was urgent to get you warm and dry. I didn’t have a choice and neither did you, so don’t be embarrassed.”
Hope put down her soup spoon and pressed her fingertips to her temples. Her forehead was deeply furrowed. “This is some kind of nightmare.”
“I’m sure it feels like a nightmare to you,” Matt said softly. “But I told you the truth. You were unconscious, soaked to the bone and lying on the muddy ground. You also have a deep cut on your head, which probably is the cause of your amnesia.”
Hope swallowed hard. “Amnesia?” she whispered.
“That’s what I would call your memory loss, yes. Of course, Doc Pickett might have another diagnosis. When the phone is working again, I’ll call him.”
“Please take the tray away,” Hope said dully.
Matt hesitated a moment, then got up and did as she’d asked. “I’ll take this to the kitchen,” he told her.
“Before you go…do you have any idea how I got here? Did you hear a car in the night? Did you see one this morning? I’m very confused on that point.”
Matt looked at her sorrowfully, unable to conceal his true state of mind on what seemed to be the pivotal question of her dilemma. “So am I, Hope, because, no, I neither heard nor saw a car. I have absolutely no idea how you got to this ranch.” He walked out.
Hope lay there for a few moments, then folded back the covers. Sliding to the edge of the bed, she got to her feet. Her head was swimming and the muscles of her legs and lower back were surprisingly sore, as though she had overexercised after a long period of immobility. “Odd,” she said under her breath, frowning over another barrage of questions without answers.
That wasn’t an accurate summary of the situation, of course. There were answers to everything she wondered about, she just didn’t know what they were. If she could remember, all the answers would fall into place. She was suddenly impatient with herself. Dammit, if you could remember, you wouldn’t have a bunch of questions eating holes in your already damaged brain!
The word damaged caused her to shudder, and, fighting debilitating frustration, she steadied herself for a minute then walked over to the window and pushed the curtain aside. Indeed it was raining, and everything outside looked nearly drowned, but what made her heart almost stop beating was the vast expanse of open country she could vaguely make out through the downpour. Beyond the house and other buildings was…nothing. Nothing but huge, soggy, empty fields and enormous puddles.
“My Lord,” she whispered in a shaky little voice. “How did I get here?” Someone must have driven her to this ranch, then…then…? Hope came close to crying again. Surely someone hadn’t driven her to this isolated ranch and then thrown her out of the car. But why on earth would anyone do something so awful?
But there was another possibly, she realized, one that was reinforced by the soreness of her body—she could have walked!
But walked from where? Maybe Matt would have some ideas, she thought, and closed the curtain. Leaving the bedroom she peered up and down the hall and figured out which direction to go.
When she appeared in the kitchen doorway, Matt looked first surprised then uncertain. “Are you sure you’re strong enough to be out of bed?”
Hope waved her hand, a gesture that indicated she considered that particular question to be trivial. “I’m physically all right,” she said. “A slight headache and some sore muscles, but that’s about it. May I talk to you?”
Matt went over to her, took her arm and led her to a chair. “You can talk all you want, but you’re barefoot and I’m going to get you a pair of socks to wear.” When she was seated, he hurried out.
Hope glanced around the kitchen, which was roomy and pleasant. The appliances were white, but the counter-tops, flooring and curtains were an attractive shade of yellow, and the color brightened the atmosphere of this gloomy, gray day. She felt much more at home in the kitchen than she had in the bedroom, which might have made sense if she had any sense, she thought drolly.
In the next instant, however, nothing seemed even remotely amusing, and she had to blink back self-pitying tears, which made her angry. She’d cried enough. Matt McCarlson was her one and only link to the rest of the world and her own past, and maybe he knew something that even he didn’t realize.
Matt returned with some warm wool socks. He knelt down in front of her and slid them on her feet before she could voice an objection, so she merely murmured, “Thank you,” when he stood up again.
“You’re welcome. Would you like another cup of tea or anything?”
“No, thank you. Matt, I was thinking that maybe I know someone around here and was visiting him or her. I can’t begin to guess what occurred last night to bring me here, but it’s only logical to assume that I’m in Texas for a reason, perhaps a very uncomplicated reason. Do you know any other LeClaires? They could be ranchers, like you, or even live in that little town you mentioned.”
Matt shook his head. “Hawthorne.”
“Yes, I believe that was what you called it.”
He could see the expectation on her face, and thought again of the newspaper article that would at least create a foundation of knowledge that she might build upon. But dealing with an amnesiac was a complete mystery to him, and Hope seemed calmer now than she had before. What if giving her that much information caused her another panic attack? He would much rather keep her calm until he could speak to Doc Pickett.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “There are no LeClaires around here that I know of.” It was the truth. He’d honestly never known anyone by that name.
Hope couldn’t conceal her disappointment. “And you know most of the area’s residents?” she asked, obvious in her hope that he would say, “No, I only know a few.”
“At least by name. Hope, I was born and raised on this ranch. This is a rural community, and you don’t have to be friends with everyone to know their names.”
“Even in Hawthorne?”
“It’s a small town.”
Hope bit her bottom lip. “I suppose.” Her gaze met Matt’s. “Do you have any theories about how I came to be lying in your mud this morning? Does Hawthorne have a hotel? Is it any kind of tourist spot? I mean, does the town attract…tourists?” Her voice trailed off, giving Matt the impression that she was grasping at straws and instinctively knew she hadn’t visited Hawthorne, Texas, as a tourist.
“It has a couple of motels, and if the phone was working it might even pay to give them a call and ask if you were registered. But the phones aren’t working, and there really isn’t anything either of us can do about it.”
“How about driving to town? I hate being even more of an imposition than I already am, but—”
Matt broke in. “The road has been washed out by the storm. Everyone on the ranch has no choice but to stay on the ranch until the storm passes and things dry out. Even then we’ll probably have to do some road repair before it’s usable again.”
“‘Everyone on the ranch?’ There are other people here?”
“The men who work for me…the ranch hands. And the foreman, Chuck Crawford.”
“Where are they?”
“At the bunkhouse, which is also where they take their meals.”
“But none of these people are women.”
“No, they’re not.”
Hope fell silent and thought for a few moments. Then she said excitedly, “The clothes I was wearing when you found me—where are they?”
“In the trash. They were tattered and torn, and—”
“Why would they be torn? I want to see them.”
“Hope, I cut them off of you so I wouldn’t have to jostle you more than I had to. I was still uncertain about the extent of your injuries, and—” He saw the determination in her eyes and gave in with a faint sigh. “I’ll go and get them, though all you’ll be examining is a pile of wet rags.”
“Rags! Is it your opinion that my clothes were rags when I put them on?”
She seemed so affronted by that prospect that Matt realized grimly that even with amnesia she knew she wore the best that money could buy. The Stockwells weren’t just comfortably well off, they were superrich. Looking at her pretty face and anxiety-filled eyes, he found himself wishing that she were just a common, ordinary citizen, which was quite an unusual wish for him to be making. He really couldn’t remember the last time that one particular woman stood out in his eyes, and the whole concept was deeply unnerving.
Spinning on his heel, he muttered, “I’ll go dig ’em out. You can figure it out for yourself.”
Hope frowned at the tone of his voice. Why, he’d sounded almost angry. Remorse hit her very hard. She was an intrusion in the man’s life and routine, for heaven’s sake. Why wouldn’t he be irritated over a request that obviously had sent him back out into the rain?
But she couldn’t go back to bed and do nothing, she just couldn’t. In the first place there was no reason for her to act like an invalid. Sore muscles and a bit of headache certainly weren’t anything to cause alarm.
Hope’s eyes narrowed slightly as she pondered that conclusion. Perhaps sore muscles and a headache weren’t cause for alarm, but what if they were clues to last night’s events? And maybe her clothes were also clues. No, she hadn’t been wrong in asking to see her things. If Matt had taken umbrage over it, then he’d either have to get over it, or not. Did it really matter to her how he or anyone else she might meet took anything she did or said when she felt so hopelessly adrift in a completely unfamiliar, even alien world? She had to follow her instincts; they were all she had.
Matt walked in with an armload of dark green fabric, which he placed on the table in front of her. “Have at it,” he said gruffly. “I think I managed to save your shoes. I’ll get them.”
Hope began taking apart the many pieces of fabric. Matt returned with a pair of black leather shoes, and she took them from his hands and frowned.
“They’re very…bruised,” she murmured.
“Scuffed,” Matt said.
She looked up. “Pardon?”
“People get bruised, not shoes. Yours are badly scuffed and the leather is gouged in places. Rough usage, I’d have to say.”
“Like maybe I had walked over some very rough terrain?”
“Yeah, that’d do it, but not if it was only a short walk. Then, too, these could be old shoes. They might have walked many miles before last night.”
Hope had no grounds for disagreement, although she somehow felt that the condition of her shoes was immutably connected to whatever had brought her here in the night.
She began looking through the pieces of wet fabric, and almost immediately noticed something strange. “It’s terribly snagged.”
“I told you it was tattered and torn.”
“Yes, there’s a tear right here. But there are so many snags.”
“Like what?”
“Look at the piece I’m holding. See all those little—uh, bumps, I guess you’d call them, where a thread has been pulled by something?”
Matt bent over for a closer look. “Do those snags mean anything to you?”
“If you’re asking, do I remember how my clothes got so badly snagged, the answer is no, they don’t mean anything to me. But what would cause such devastating wear and tear on one’s clothing?”
Matt shrugged. “Beats me. Unless you fought your way through a bunch of prickly mesquite brush.”
“Is there some of that around here?”
“Lots of it. Also scrub cedar and oak, and both of those can scratch the living daylights out of a person dumb enough to tangle with them.”
She shot him a dirty look. “Other reasons beside stupidity might have caused me to tangle with some prickly plants, you know.”
Her flare of defensive temper surprised him. “I wasn’t even talking about you,” he retorted.
“Who were you talking about then, the man in the moon? Let me ask you this. Wasn’t I wearing underwear or were you too squeamish to bring it back inside with the rest of this mess, which I might add, was mostly caused by your scissors?”
“Women’s underwear does not make me feel squeamish,” he said coldly. “For your information, I took a brassiere and a pair of panties off your wet, shivering body, and once you were bathed, dressed in my sweats and warming up under the best blankets in the house, I rinsed the mud out of your delicacies and hung them in the laundry room to dry.”
Hope’s jaw dropped. “You bathed me?”
“Don’t you dare use that indignant tone on me, lady. You were covered with mud. I suppose I should have put you to bed in that condition?”
Heat suffused Hope’s face. “Bathing someone is just so—so intimate.”
“Under this morning’s conditions, it wasn’t even close to being intimate.” It was a lie but Matt managed to sound totally and innocently sincere.
Hope tried to steer this uncomfortable conversation in another direction. “I knew these huge sweats I’ve got on had to belong to someone very tall.” And very handsome? He was handsome; it was simply a fact of her present limited life. Not that she wanted to expand on that fact. Goodness, she could be married, or engaged, or living with a man she loved madly.
“I rolled up the legs, but I could cut them off, if you prefer,” Matt said.
“I wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Suit yourself, but I can see that you’re swimming in loose material.”
“Which is just fine for now.”
“Are you finished with those pieces of cloth?”
“I guess so. Oh, wait a sec. I see a label.” Hope studied the label of a hunk of fabric, then sighed because it meant absolutely nothing to her. “I was hoping…” she said in a husky little voice.
