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
