Читать книгу The Cattleman And The Virgin Heiress - Jackie Merritt - Страница 8

S he was on a road, the only thing she knew for sure in the nearly blinding rainfall. On a road in the black, black night, drenched to the skin and running. Running as hard as she could and still managing to breathe. Her chest ached from the gasping for air she’d undergone for…oh, Lord, how long had she been running? How far away was she from that terrible place?

And was he behind her in the dark? Fear made her take another look over her shoulder. She saw nothing but rain and darkness. Easily he could be toying with her, staying just beyond her scope of vision, knowing that he could reach her with a short sprint whenever he got over his perverted sense of fun.

Panic seized her again, and she forced her exhausted legs to run faster. She needed desperately to stop and rest and catch her breath, but she didn’t dare, not for a minute. Would it help her plight if she knew precisely where she was? she wondered as her mind frantically sought salvation from the most horrifying experience of her life. She had a general idea of her location, but this whole area was frighteningly unfamiliar.

If only someone would come along. A police car would be perfect but far too much to hope for when she hadn’t seen even one vehicle of any kind since her flight began.

And then, so suddenly that it sent a shock wave of fortifying excitement through her system, she saw a light. It wasn’t close and it appeared to be wavering in the torrential rainfall that was nearly drowning her and blurring her eyesight, but she felt confident that it was a light. A yard light, perhaps. Indicating that someone lived out there, someone who might be kind enough to open his or her door to a soggy, scared-to-death stranger and let her warm up, dry off and calm her wildly beating heart.

Without hesitation she headed for the light. In moments she realized that she was running in prickly brush that tore at her clothes and skin. Her chest felt as though it were on fire, her right side was aching badly, her legs screamed with pain and still she didn’t dare stop. Added to that list of miseries, she nearly fell down several times, as the ground had turned to slippery mud under her feet.

But the light gave her hope. Shortly she realized that she was crossing a road—a different road than the one she’d been on earlier. Even in the rain and darkness she could tell it was a different road, and gratitude flooded her heart. “Thank you,” she whispered as her pulse leapt tumultuously over this additional proof that she was approaching inhabited territory.

But on the other side of that road was a rise in the terrain, and it was muddy and slicker than ice. She couldn’t let it defeat her and she started up it. She lost her footing and fell backward. Grasping at anything to break her fall, she inadvertently twisted around, and when she hit the ground her head collided with a fence post.

She knew no more, and the rain mercilessly pelted her limp form and muddy face.

Matt McCarlson had heard the rain all night. At daybreak it was still raining, and Matt grimly got dressed and left the house to see what damage this powerful storm was wreaking. Wearing a yellow slicker and a wide-brimmed hat low on his forehead, he saddled his horse, Dex. Inspecting the ranch on horseback made sense. Storms of this magnitude and duration washed out roads, flooded creeks and created puddles the size of small lakes. Mounting Dex, Matt rode from the barn.

It was as bad as he’d suspected. Where water wasn’t actually standing because of runoff to lower ground, it was so dangerously slippery with mud that Matt had to watch every step Dex took. The trees around the house had lost branches and limbs, and the debris was scattered far and wide. Leaving the compound, Matt checked the creeks that wound—normally at a lazy pace—through his land, and just as he’d known in his gut would be the case, every single creek had overflowed its banks. It was a spectacle of flash flooding and nature’s formidable power, and it wasn’t at its worst yet because it was still raining.

Shaking his head disgustedly, Matt directed Dex for home. There wasn’t much he or the men working for him could do today. He’d tell Chuck Crawford, his foreman, to give the crew the day off. They could hang around the bunkhouse or try to get to Hawthorne, the closest town, if they wanted, though Matt doubted that the roads would be passable.

Matt was almost back to the barn when he remembered that he hadn’t picked up yesterday’s mail from the mailbox at the end of the ranch’s driveway. He decided to do that before holing up until the rain at least slowed down some. Yesterday’s mail delivery might be the last one for a week, he thought wryly as he approached the end of the driveway and the mailbox. He’d seen this kind of storm before, and if he managed to pull his ranch out of the financial doldrums into which it had descended this past year and he continued his life as a Texas cattle rancher, he would undoubtedly see it again.

Thinking of his financial problems pulled down his mood, which wasn’t the best to begin with. There wasn’t a place on earth that didn’t need regular rainfalls, but storms of this nature were downright depressing.

“Hell,” Matt muttered as he rode. Matt was just about to reach into the box for the mail when he spotted something strange. Turning his head, he gasped and mumbled, “What the hell?” He felt bile rise in his throat and an increased pulse rate. He saw a person lying in muddy water, resembling a pile of wet rags.

Was the person breathing? Heaven help him—he could be looking at a dead body.

Matt’s stomach turned over. He scanned the area for a car and saw none. Fearful conjecture created horrifying images in Matt’s brain. How had this person gotten here? The McCarlson ranch was miles from Hawthorne and almost that far from any other ranch. Was he looking at a victim of foul play?

With a suddenly bone-dry mouth and jangling nerves, Matt urged Dex over to the mud-streaked, soaking-wet, bedraggled creature. Sliding from the saddle to the ground, Matt blinked twice in genuine shock. It was a woman!

He could hardly believe his eyes. A woman! Where had she come from? Her face was unknown to him. Who was she, and what chain of events had delivered her to his doorstep? Was it something as simple as a flat tire or a disabled vehicle on the main road?

Well, he couldn’t just stand there and speculate, even though he was almost afraid to find out if she was alive or dead. This sort of thing wasn’t his forte, not even close. He was a rancher, not a medic.

And then he caught sight of something that made him grit his teeth and do what had to be done—there was blood in the watery mud next to her head. Obviously she had a head injury, a cut, a gash, some sort of wound that was seeping blood. Matt forced himself to kneel beside her. He removed the glove from his right hand and then took her wrist and felt for a pulse. He found one and breathed an enormous sigh of relief.

“Ma’am? Miss? Can you hear me?” he said, hoping that the sound of his voice would rouse her. At the same time he wondered how he would get her to the house if she didn’t come to.

One option was quickly eliminated. Lifting her onto his horse when she was unconscious wouldn’t be wise. She could have more than one injury and laying her over the saddle like a sack of potatoes could exacerbate her medical situation.

He hated leaving her alone while he went for one of the four-wheel-drive trucks—the only vehicles on the ranch that might make it through such heavy, clinging mud—but that really was his only choice.

“Miss, I’m going to be gone for a few minutes, but don’t be afraid, okay? I’ll be back in a flash. I just need to get a truck to—”

Her eyes opened, startling him, but the intensity of his relief momentarily weakened his knees.

“Hello,” he said gently. She stared at him and said nothing. “Hold on, maybe I can make you a little more comfortable.” Standing, Matt took off his slicker and laid it over her. She couldn’t possibly get any wetter than she was, but maybe the slicker would warm her a little. Kneeling again, he leaned over her and looked into her eyes. They were a beautiful blue color, but so dull and lifeless that he felt another jab of fear.

“Can you hear me?” he asked. “Does your head hurt? Do you feel any pain anywhere else?”

“No,” she whispered.

“Your head doesn’t hurt?”

“Uh, maybe a little. In back.”

He’d never seen such a blank expression in anyone’s eyes before, but he had no idea what it meant. “Are you sure you have no pain anywhere else? The reason I’m asking is that I want to get you out of the rain and into the house, and I don’t want to make matters worse by moving you if I shouldn’t.”

“No pain,” she whispered, and closed her eyes again. “Please, just let me sleep.”

“No! You need to stay awake,” Matt said sharply, causing her eyelids to flutter open again. “You have to stay awake until I can get you inside, do you understand?” He didn’t have to be a doctor to know that she should not be seeking sleep in this unholy situation; it was just common sense. She was obviously weak and probably chilled to the bone. She needed to get warm, she needed dry clothes and a doctor, and she needed those things now, or as close to “now” as he could manage them.

He made a decision then. The fastest, most efficient method of getting her to the house was for him to carry her there. Him, not Dex, not a truck.

“Don’t be alarmed,” he said. “I’m going to slide my arms under you and pick you up so I can carry you to the house. Please just lie still and let me do the work.”

Once again he received a totally blank stare, almost as though she didn’t comprehend speech at all, and yet she let him pick her up and slip and slide to his feet in the mud without any sign of objection.

It was slow going. He estimated her weight to be around 110 pounds and thanked the good Lord it wasn’t more. By the time he reached the house, however, it felt as though he were carrying a ton. His whole body ached, especially his arms and back. During the entire struggle, she had not uttered one sound, though he’d glanced down every so often to make sure that her eyes remained open.

“We’re here,” he said, gasping the message because he was out of breath and tired. Even so, he managed to hang on to her and still turn the doorknob.

A minute later, walking down the hallway to the bedroom area of the house, he felt renewed strength; it was almost over. There were three bedrooms, and he entered the first one he came to and strode to the bed. Laying her down on it, he straightened his back and groaned silently. It wasn’t that he was physically out of shape—far from it—but carrying another person for a good quarter of a mile wasn’t a common occurrence for him. Hell’s bells, was it a common occurrence for anyone?

Standing there, looking at her, he realized what a mess he had on his hands. She was injured, soaked through and muddy from head to shoes. Along with her worrisome physical condition, there was her listlessness, and the un-caring tone of her voice the few times she’d spoken. Shock, Matt thought. She had to be in shock. Her head injury was the most probable cause, but how had she gotten hurt in the first place? And way out here, on his ranch, to boot? It didn’t add up.

Regardless of so many questions without answers, she was here, in his house, and other than the ranch hands—who were probably wondering why he wasn’t at the breakfast table with them—there was no one else to help her. He was it, and he wished to high heaven there was another woman on the place, because someone was going to have to help her get out of those filthy, wet clothes.

“Okay,” he said under his breath, dreading that prospect. “Let’s take care of first things first. Miss, I’m going to call a doctor, Doc Adam Pickett. He’s a good doctor and a good friend, so don’t you lie there worrying. Stay put, all right? I won’t be long.” Matt took his slicker away from her and replaced it with a warm down comforter. “Try to relax, but don’t fall asleep.” He hurried from the room and headed for the kitchen telephone.

His heart sank when he put the receiver to his ear; there was no dial tone. The phone lines were down and who knew when they would be repaired?

“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.