LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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