The Cattleman And The Virgin Heiress

“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.”

“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.