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CHAPTER EIGHT

 She was more nervous than she had been before her first television audition at that dumpy little TV station in Arkansas eight years earlier. With damp palms and a dry throat, she had stood ankle deep in mud and swill, gripping the microphone with bloodless fingers and bluffing her way through an on-location story about a parasite currently affecting swine farmers. Afterward, the news director had drolly reminded her that the disease was affecting the swine, not the farmers.  But he had given her the job of field reporter anyway.

This was an audition, too. Would Mandy detect what no one else had been able to—that the woman behind the battered face was not Carole Rutledge?

During the day, while the caring, talkative nurses had bathed and dressed her, while the physical therapist had gone through her exercises with her, a haunting question persisted: Did she want the truth to be revealed?

She had arrived at no definite answer. For the time being, what difference did it make who they perceived her to be? She couldn't alter fate. She was alive and Carole Rutledge was dead. Some cosmic force had deemed the outcome of that plane crash, not she.

She had tried desperately, with her severely limited capabilities, to alert everyone to their error, but without success. There was nothing she could do about the consequences of it now. Until she could use a tablet and pencil to communicate, she must remain Carole. While playing that role, she could do some undercover research into a bizarre news story and repay Tate Rutledge for his kindness. If he believed that Mandy would benefit  from  seeing  her  "mother," then Avery would temporarily go along with that. She thought the child might be better off by knowing the truth of her mother's death right away, but she wasn't in a position to tell her. Hopefully, her appearance wouldn't frighten the child so badly that she regressed.

The nurse adjusted the scarf covering her head, where her hair was still no more than an inch long. "There. Not bad at all," she said, appraising her handiwork. "In a couple more weeks, that handsome husband of yours won't be able to take his eyes off you. You know, of course, that all the single nurses, as well as a few married ones," she amended dryly, "are wildly in love with him."

She was moving around the bed, straightening the sheets and fussing with the flowers, pinching off blooms that had already peaked and were withering.

"You don't mind, do you?" she asked. "Surely you're used to other women lusting after him by now. How long have y'all been married? Four years, I believe he said when one of the nurses asked." She patted Avery's shoulder. "Dr. Sawyer works miracles. Wait and see. Y'all will be the best looking couple in Washington."

"You're taking a lot for granted, aren't you?"

At the sound of his voice, Avery's heart fluttered. She looked toward the door to find him filling it. As he came farther into the room, he said to the nurse, "I'm convinced that Dr. Sawyer can work miracles. But are you that sure I'll win the election?"

"You've got my vote."

His laugh was deep and rich and as comfortable as an old, worn blanket. "Good. I'll need all the votes I can get."

"Where's your little girl?"

"I left her at the nurses' station. I'll get her in a few minutes."

Taking his subtle cue for what it was, the nurse smiled down at Avery and winked. "Good luck."

As soon as they were alone, Tate moved to Avery's side. "Hi. You look nice." He expelled a deep breath. "Well, she's here. I'm not sure how it'll go. Don't be disappointed if she—"

He broke off as his eyes flickered across her breasts. She didn't adequately fill the bodice of Carole's nightgown, modest as it was. Avery saw the puzzlement register on his face and her heart began to pound.