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CHAPTER FOUR

 Avery woke up knowing who she was.

She had never exactly forgotten.  It was just that her medication, along with her concussion, had left her confused. Yesterday—or at least she guessed it had been yesterday, since everyone who had recently come within her range of vision had greeted her with a "good morning"—she had been disoriented, which was understandable. Waking after having been comatose for several days to find that she couldn't move, couldn't speak, and couldn't see beyond a very limited range would confound anyone. She was rarely ill, certainly not seriously, so being this injured was shocking. The ICU, with its constant light and activity, was enough to hamper anyone's mental process. But what really had Avery puzzled was that everyone was addressing her incorrectly. How had she come to be mistaken for a woman named Carole Rutledge? Even Mr. Rutledge seemed convinced that he was speaking to his wife.

Somehow, she must communicate this mistake to them. But she didn't know how, and that frightened her.

Her name was Avery Daniels. It was clearly printed on her driver's license, her press pass, and all the other forms of identification in her wallet. They had probably been destroyed in the crash, she thought.

Memories of the crash tended to panic her still, so she determinedly put them aside to be dealt with later, when she was stronger and had this temporary mix-up straightened out.

Where was Irish? Why hadn't he come to her rescue?

The obvious answer startled her unexpectedly. Her whole body reacted as though it had been electrically charged. It was unthinkable, untenable, yet it was glaringly apparent. If she had been mistaken for Mrs. Rutledge, and Mrs. Rutledge was believed alive, then Avery Daniels was believed dead.

She imagined the anguish Irish must be going through. Her "death" would hit him hard. For the present, however, she was helpless to alleviate his suffering. No! As long as she was alive, she wasn't helpless. She must think. She must concentrate.

"Good morning."

She recognized his voice immediately. The swelling in her eye must have gone down some because she could see him more clearly. His previously blurred features were now distinct.

His heavy, well-shaped brows almost met above the bridge of a long, straight nose. He had a strong, stubborn jaw line and chin, yet it fell short of being pugnacious, despite the vertical cleft at the edge of it. His lips were firm, wide, and thin, the lower one slightly fuller than the upper.

He was smiling, but not with his eyes, she noted. He didn't really feel the smile. It didn't come from his soul. Avery wondered why not.

"They said you had a restful night. Still no sign of pulmonary infection. That's terrific news."

She knew this face, this voice. Not from yesterday. It was before that, but she couldn't recall when she had met this man. "Mom left Mandy's room long enough to come say hello to you." He turned his head and signaled someone to move closer. "You have to stand here, Mom, or she can't see you." An exceptionally pretty, middle-aged face materialized in Avery's patch of vision. The woman's soft, dark hair had a very flattering silver streak that waved up and away from her smooth, unlined forehead.

"Hello, Carole. We're all very relieved that you're doing so well. Tate said the doctors are pleased with your progress."

Tate Rutledge! Of course.

"Tell her about Mandy, Mom."

Dutifully, the stranger reported on another stranger. "Mandy ate most of her breakfast this morning. They sedated her last night so she would sleep better. The cast on her arm bothers her, but that's to be expected, I suppose. She's the sweetheart of the pediatric wing, and has the entire staff wrapped around her little finger." Tears formed in her eyes and she blotted at them with a tissue. "When I think of what ..." Tate Rutledge placed his arm across his mother's shoulders. "But it didn't happen. Thank God it didn't."