Avery slid on a pair of sunglasses.

“I think it would be better not to wear them,” Eddy told her. “We don’t want it to look like we’re hiding something unsightly.”

“All right.” She removed the sunglasses and pocketed them in the raw silk jacket, which matched her pleated trousers. “Do I look okay?” she nervously asked Tate and Eddy.

Eddy gave her a thumbs-up sign. “Smashing.”

“Lousy pun,” Tate remarked with a grin.

Avery ran her hand over the short hair at the back of her skull. “Does my hair…?”

“Very chic,” Eddy said. Then he clapped his hands together and rubbed them vigorously. “Well, we’ve kept the baited hounds at bay long enough. Let’s go.”

Together, the three of them left her room for the last time and walked down the hallway toward the lobby. Good-byes to the staff had already been said, but good-luck wishes were called out to them as they passed the nurses’ station.

“A limo?” Avery asked when they reached the tinted glass facade of the building. The horde of reporters couldn’t yet see them, but she could see outside. A black Cadillac limousine was parked at the curb with a uniformed chauffeur standing by.

“So both of us would be free to protect you,” Eddy explained.

“From what?”

“The crush. The driver’s already stowed your things in the trunk. Go to the mike, say your piece, politely decline to field any questions, then head for the car.”

He looked at her a moment, as though wanting to make certain his instructions had sunk in, then turned to Tate. “You can take a couple of questions if you want to. Gauge how friendly they are. As long as it’s comfortable, milk it for all it’s worth. If it gets sticky, use Carole as your excuse to cut it short. Ready?”

He went ahead to open the door. Avery looked up at Tate. “How do you abide his bossiness?”

“That’s what he’s being paid for.”

She made a mental note not to criticize Eddy. In Tate’s estimation, his campaign manager was above reproach.

Eddy was holding the door for them. Tate encircled her elbow and nudged her forward. The reporters and photographers had been a clamoring, squirming mass moments before. Now an expectant hush fell over them as they waited for the senatorial candidate’s wife to emerge after months of seclusion.

Avery cleared the doorway and moved to the microphone as Eddy had instructed her to. She looked like Carole Rutledge. She knew that. It was remarkable to her that the charade hadn’t been detected by those closest to Carole, even her husband. Of course, none had reason to doubt that she was who she was supposed to be. They weren’t looking for an impostor, and therefore, they didn’t see one.

But as she approached the microphone, Avery was afraid that strangers might discern what intimates hadn’t. Someone might rise above the crowd, aim an accusatory finger at her, and shout, “Impostor!”

Therefore, the spontaneous burst of applause astonished her. It took her, Tate, and even Eddy, who was always composed, by complete surprise. Her footsteps faltered. She glanced up at Tate with uncertainty. He smiled that dazzling, all-American hero smile at her and it was worth all the pain and anguish she had suffered since the crash. It boosted her confidence tremendously.

She graciously signaled for the applause to cease. As it tapered off, she said a timid thank-you. Then, clearing her throat, giving a slight toss of her head, and moistening her lips with her tongue, she began reciting her brief, prepared speech.

“Thank you, ladies and gentleman, for being here to welcome me back after my long hospitalization. I wish to publicly extend my sympathy to those who lost loved ones in the dreadful crash of AireAmerica Flight 398. It’s still incredible to me that my daughter and I survived such a tragic and costly accident. I probably wouldn’t have, had it not been for the constant support and encouragement of my husband.”

The last line had been her addition to Eddy’s prepared speech. Boldly, she slipped her hand into Tate’s. After a moment’s hesitation, which only she was aware of, he gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

“Mrs. Rutledge, do you hold AireAmerica responsible for the crash?”

“We can’t comment until the investigation is completed and the results have been announced by the NTSB,” Tate said.

“Mrs. Rutledge, do you plan to sue for damages?”

“We have no plans to pursue litigation at this time.” Again, Tate answered for her.

“Mrs. Rutledge, do you remember saving your daughter from the burning wreckage?”

“I do now,” she said before Tate could speak. “But I didn’t at first. I responded to survival instinct. I don’t remember making a conscious decision.”

“Mrs. Rutledge, at any point during the reconstructive procedure on your face, did you doubt it could be done?”

“I had every confidence in the surgeon my husband selected.”

Tate leaned into the mike to make himself heard above the din. “As you might guess, Carole is anxious to get home. If you’ll excuse us, please.”

He ushered her forward, but the crowd surged toward them. “Mr. Rutledge, will Mrs. Rutledge be going with you on the campaign trail?” A particularly pushy reporter blocked their path and shoved a microphone into Tate’s face.

“A few trips for Carole have been scheduled. But there will be many times when she’ll feel it’s best to stay at home with our daughter.”

“How is your daughter, Mr. Rutledge?”

“She’s well, thank you. Now, if we could—”

“Is she suffering any aftereffects of the crash?”

“What does your daughter think of the slight alterations in your appearance, Mrs. Rutledge?”

“No more questions now, please.”

With Eddy clearing a path for them, they made their way through the obstinate crowd. It was friendly, for the most part, but even so, being surrounded by so many people gave Avery a sense of suffocation.

Up till now, she’d always been on the other side, a reporter poking a microphone at someone in the throes of a personal crisis. The reporter’s job was to get the story, get the sound bite that no one else got, take whatever measures were deemed necessary. Little consideration was ever given to what it was like on the other side of the microphone. She’d never enjoyed that aspect of the job. Her fatal mistake in broadcasting hadn’t arisen from having too little sensitivity, but from having too much.

From the corner of her eye she spotted the KTEX logo stenciled on the side of a Betacam. Instinctively, she turned her head in that direction. It was Van!

For a split second she forgot that he was supposed to be a stranger to her. She came close to calling out his name and waving eagerly. His pale, thin face and lanky ponytail looked wonderfully familiar and dear! She longed to throw herself against his bony chest and hug him hard.

Thankfully, her face remained impassive. She turned away, giving no sign of recognition. Tate ushered her into the limo. Once inside the backseat and screened by the tinted glass, she looked out the rear window. Van, like all the others, was shoving his way through the throng, video camera riding atop his shoulder, his eye glued to the viewfinder.

How she missed the newsroom, with its ever-present pall of tobacco smoke, jangling telephones, squawking police radios, and clacking teletypes. The constant ebb and flow of reporters, cameramen and gofers seemed to Avery to be light-years in the past.

As the limo pulled away from the address that had been her refuge for weeks, she experienced an overwhelming homesickness for Avery Daniels’s life. What had happened to her apartment, her things? Had they been boxed up and parceled out to strangers? Who was wearing her clothes, sleeping on her sheets, using her towels? She suddenly felt as though she’d been stripped and violated. But she had made an irrevocable decision to leave Avery Daniels indefinitely dead. Not only her career, but her life, and Tate’s, were at stake.

Beside her, Tate adjusted himself into the seat. His leg brushed hers. His elbow grazed her breast. His hip settled reassuringly against hers.

For the time being, she was where she wanted to be.

Eddy, sitting on the fold-down seat in front of her, patted her knee. “You did great, even on the ad libs. Nice touch, reaching for Tate’s hand that way. What’d you think, Tate?”

Tate was loosening his tie and unbuttoning his collar. “She did fine.” He wagged his finger at Eddy. “But I don’t like those questions about Mandy. What possible bearing does she have on the campaign issues or the election?”

“None. People are just curious.”

“Screw curious. She’s my daughter. I want her protected.”

“Maybe she’s too protected.” Avery’s husky voice sharply drew Tate’s eyes to her.

“Meaning?”

“Now that they’ve seen me,” she said, “they’ll stop pestering you with questions about me and concentrate on the important issues.”

During her convalescence, she had kept close tabs on his campaign by reading every newspaper available and watching television news. He had blitzed the primary election, but the real battle was still ahead of him. His opponent in November would be the incumbent senior senator, Rory Dekker.

Dekker was an institution in Texas politics. For as long as Avery remembered, he had been a senator. It was going to be a David-and-Goliath contest. The incredible odds in Dekker’s favor, coupled with Tate’s audacious courage against such an impressive foe, had sparked more interest in this election than any in recent memory.

On nearly every newscast there was at least a fifteen-second mention of the senate race, and, as Avery well knew, even fifteen seconds was an enviable amount of time. But while Dekker wisely used his time to state his platform, Tate’s allotment had been squandered on questions regarding Carole’s medical progress.

“If we don’t keep Mandy under such lock and key,” she said carefully, “their curiosity over her will soon abate. Hopefully, they’ll get curious about something else, like your relief plan for the farmers who have been foreclosed on.”

“She might have a point, Tate.” Eddy eyed her suspiciously, but with grudging respect.

Tate’s expression bordered between anger and indecision. “I’ll think about it,” was all he said before turning his head to stare out the window.

They rode in silence until they reached campaign headquarters. Eddy said, “Everybody’s anxious to see you, Carole. I’ve asked them not to gape, but I can’t guarantee that they won’t,” he warned her as she alighted with the chauffeur’s assistance. “I think the goodwill would go a long way if you could stick around for a while.”

“She will.” Giving her no choice, Tate took her arm and steered her toward the door.

His chauvinism raised the hair on the back of her neck, but she was curious to see his campaign headquarters, so she went peaceably. As they approached the door, however, her stomach grew queasy with fear. Each new situation was a testing ground, a mine field that she must navigate gingerly, holding her breath against making a wrong move.

The doors admitted them into a place of absolute chaos. The volunteer workers were taking calls, making calls, sealing envelopes, opening envelopes, stapling, unstapling, standing up, sitting down. Everyone was in motion. After the silence and serenity of the clinic, Avery felt as though she had just been thrust into an ape house.

Tate removed his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. Once he was spotted, each volunteer stopped his particular chore in favor of speaking to him. It was apparent to Avery that everyone in the room looked to him as a hero and was dedicated to helping him win the election.

It also became clear to her that Eddy Paschal’s word was considered law, because while the volunteers looked at her askance and spoke polite hellos, she wasn’t subjected to avidly curious stares. Feeling awkward and uncertain over what was expected of her, she tagged along behind Tate as he moved through the room. In his element, he emanated contagious confidence.

“Hello, Mrs. Rutledge,” one young man said to her. “You’re looking extremely well.”

“Thank you.”

“Tate, this morning the governor issued a statement congratulating Mrs. Rutledge on her full recovery. He commended her courage, but he called you, and I paraphrase, a bleeding-heart liberal that Texans should be wary of. He cautioned the voting public not to let sympathy for Mrs. Rutledge influence their votes in November. How do you want to respond?”

“I don’t. Not right away. The pompous son of a bitch wants to provoke me and make me look like a fire-breathing dragon. I won’t give him the satisfaction. Oh, and that ‘pompous son of a bitch’ is off the record.”

The young man laughed and scurried toward a word processor to compose his press release.

“What does the current poll show?” Tate asked the room at large.

“We aren’t paying attention to the polls,” Eddy said smoothly, moving toward them. Somewhere along the way, he had picked up Fancy. She was eyeing Carole with her usual recalcitrance.

“The hell you’re not,” Tate said, countering Eddy’s glib response. “How many points am I behind?”

“Fourteen.”

“Up one from last week. I’ve been saying all along there’s nothing to sweat.” Everyone laughed at his optimistic analysis.

“Hi, Uncle Tate. Hi, Aunt Carole.”

“Hello, Fancy.”

The girl’s face broke into an angelic smile, but there was malice behind it that Avery found unsettling. The one time Fancy had come to see her in the hospital, she had snickered at her scars, which had still been visible. The girl’s insensitivity had angered Nelson so much that he’d sent her from the room and banished her from returning. She hadn’t seemed to mind.

Just to look at her, one could tell that she was a calculating, selfish little bitch. If Fancy were ten years younger, Avery would think a hard spanking would be in order. Her regard for Carole, however, seemed to go beyond teenage sullenness. She seemed to hold a deep and abiding grudge against her.

“Is that your new wedding ring?” Fancy asked now, nodding down at Avery’s left hand.

“Yes. Tate gave it to me last night.”

She lifted Avery’s hand by the fingertips and scornfully assessed the ring. “He wouldn’t spring for more diamonds, huh?”

“I have a job for you,” Eddy said tersely. “Back here.” Taking Fancy’s elbow, he spun her around and gave her a push in the opposite direction.

“Such a sweet child,” Avery said from the corner of her mouth.

“She could stand a good paddling.”

“I agree.”

“Hello, Mrs. Rutledge.” A middle-aged woman approached them and shook Avery’s hand.

“Hello. It’s nice to see you again, Mrs. Baker,” she said after surreptitiously consulting the name tag pinned to the woman’s breast pocket.

Mrs. Baker’s smile faltered. She nervously glanced at Tate. “Eddy said you should read over these press releases, Tate. They’re scheduled to be sent out tomorrow.”

“Thanks. I’ll do it tonight and send them back with Eddy tomorrow.”

“That’ll be fine. There’s no rush.”

“I made a mistake, didn’t I?” Avery asked him as the woman moved away.

“We’d better go.”

He called out a good-bye that encompassed everybody. Eddy waved to him from across the room but continued speaking into the telephone receiver he had cradled between his ear and shoulder. From her perch on the corner of his desk, Fancy gave them a negligent wave.

Tate escorted Avery outside and toward a parked silver sedan. “No limo this time?”

“We’re just plain folks now.”

Avery drank up the sights and sounds of the city as they slogged their way through noon traffic. It had been so long since her world had consisted of more than only a few sterile walls. The hectic pace at which everything moved, the racket, color, and light, were intimidating after her months of isolation. They were also thrilling. Everything was fondly familiar yet excitingly new, as spring must be to an animal emerging from hibernation.

When they passed the airport and she saw the jets taking off, chill bumps broke out over her arms and her insides tensed to the point of pain.

“Are you okay?”

Quickly, she averted her eyes from the airfield and caught Tate watching her closely. “Sure. I’m fine.”

“Will you ever be able to fly again?”

“I don’t know. I suppose. The first time is sure to be the toughest.”

“I don’t know if we’ll ever get Mandy on a plane again.”

“She might overcome her fear easier than I will. Children are often more resilient than adults.”

“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 contrasts 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.

An article in Texas Monthly had carried an accompanying picture of the house, but Avery couldn’t tell much about it from the photograph.

Now, as they topped a rise, she could see it in the distance. It was built of white adobe like a Spanish hacienda, with three wings that formed a horseshoe around a central courtyard. From the center, one had a spectacular view of the valley and the river beyond. The expansive house had a red tile roof that was currently reflecting the noon sun.

The driveway arced, forming a half circle in front of the main entrance. A majestic live oak shaded the entire front of the house, with curly gray moss dripping from its branches. Geraniums, scarlet and profuse, were blooming in terracotta pots on either side of the front door, which Tate guided her toward once she had alighted from the car.

It was quintessential Texana, breathtakingly beautiful, and, Avery suddenly realized, home.