Mirror Image

“Maybe.”

“I’m so anxious to see her. It’s been weeks.”

“She’s growing.”

“Is she?”

A smile broke across his face. “The other day I pulled her into my lap and noticed that the top of her head almost reaches my chin now.”

They shared a smile for several seconds. Then his eyes dimmed, his smile relaxed, and he returned his attention to the traffic. Feeling shut out, Avery asked, “What about Mrs. Baker? What did I do wrong?”

“She only started working for us two weeks ago. You’ve never met her.”

Avery’s heart fluttered. This was bound to happen. She would make these little mistakes that she had to rapidly think up excuses for.

She lowered her head and rubbed her temples with her middle finger and thumb. “I’m sorry, Tate. I must have looked and sounded very phony.”

“You did.”

“Have patience with me. The truth is, I have lapses of memory. Sometimes the sequence of events confuses me. I can’t remember people or places clearly.”

“I noticed that weeks ago. Things you said didn’t make any sense.”

“Why didn’t you say something when you first noticed?”

“I didn’t want to worry you, so I asked the neurologist about it. He said your concussion probably erased part of your memory.”

“Forever?”

He shrugged. “He couldn’t say. Things might gradually come back to you, or they might be irretrievable.”

Secretly, Avery was glad to hear the neurologist’s prognosis. If she committed a faux pas, she could use a lapse of memory as her excuse.

Reaching across the car, she covered Tate’s hand with her own. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.”

“I’m sure she’ll understand when I explain.”

He slid his hand from beneath hers and placed both on the steering wheel to take an exit ramp off the divided highway. Avery paid close attention to the route they were taking. She would have to know how to find her way home, wouldn’t she?

She had been born in Denton, a college town in north central Texas, and spent most of her childhood in Dallas, the base from which Cliff Daniels had worked as a freelance photojournalist.

Like most native Texans, regional pride had been bred into her. Though she’d spent hundreds of dollars on speech teachers in an effort to eradicate her accent, at heart she was all Texan. The hill country had always been one of her favorite areas of the state. The gently rolling hills and underground, spring-fed streams were beautiful any season of the year.

The bluebonnets were in full bloom now, covering the ground like a sapphire rash. More brilliantly colored wildflowers were splashed across the natural canvas, and the borders of color blurred to resemble a Monet painting. Giant boulders jutted out of the earth like crooked molars, saving the landscape from being merely pastoral.

Passion teemed in this countryside where Spanish dons had established empires, Comanche warriors had chased mustang herds, and colonists had shed blood to win autonomy. The land seemed to pulse with the ghosts of those indomitable peoples who had domesticated but never tamed it. Their fiercely independent spirits lurked there, like the wildcats that lived in the natural caves of the area, unseen but real.

Hawks on the lookout for prey spiraled on motionless wings. Rust-colored Herefords grazed on the sparse grass growing between cedar bushes. Like benevolent overseers, occasional live oaks spread their massive branches over the rocky ground, providing shade for cattle, deer, elk, and smaller game. Cypress trees grew along the rushing riverbeds; the swollen banks of the Guadalupe were densely lined with their ropy trunks, knobby knees, and feathery branches.

It was a land rich in cont

rasts and folklore. Avery loved it.

So, apparently, did Tate. While driving, he gazed at the scenery with the appreciation of one seeing it for the first time. He turned into a road bracketed by two native stone pillars. Suspended between them was a sign made of wrought iron that spelled out “Rocking R Ranch.”

From the articles about the Rutledges that she had secretly read during her convalescence, Avery had learned that the Rocking R covered more than five thousand acres and was home to an impressive herd of prime beef cattle. Two tributaries from the Guadalupe River and one from the Blanco supplied it with coveted water.

Nelson had inherited the land from his father. Since his retirement from the air force, he had devoted his time to building the ranch into a profitable enterprise, traveling to other parts of the country to study breeds of cattle and ways to improve the Rocking R’s stock.