“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.
“Look, I’m going to go down to the bunkhouse and see how the men are making out. I’d feel better about leaving you alone if you were in bed again.”
“Fine,” Hope said dully. Matt was instantly at her side to help her up from the chair, and he held her arm all the way back to the bedroom and the bed. She told herself to forget that he was a tall, deliciously sexy, good-looking man—who seemed to get better looking every time they talked—but his big hand clasped around her arm made that impossible to do. She was glad when she was finally under the covers again and Matt had left the room.
She heaved a long, helpless sigh. This was not a game, and she really must be demented to be noticing a man’s good looks under such trying circumstances.
But then, maybe that was the kind of woman she was. Maybe she slept around. Maybe any sexy guy was fair game. Maybe she was a—a tramp!
Tears rolled down her temples. Matt McCarlson had not only undressed her, he’d given her a bath. Maybe she should be worrying about what kind of person he was. After all, she had been unconscious and entirely at his mercy!
Matt stayed away from the house for a couple of hours. He talked to the men at the bunkhouse and they weren’t