Margaret Daley - Carbon Copy Cowboy

“Hey!” Jack called. “You okay?”

The woman lay still as death, her head all but wedged into the steering wheel. Finding that he couldn’t reach the driver’s window from the bottom or side of the ditch, Jack quickly ran around the car. He dragged a fallen tree limb over and positioned it so that he could ease out to the passenger door, which he thankfully found unlocked.

Tossing his hat to the ground, he carefully leaned inside to reach across the empty seat and push back the lady’s long hair. He intended to check her pulse, but the purity of her profile momentarily arrested his hand. In a blink, he took in the gently winged tip of her eyebrow, the delicate ridge of her nose, the prominence of her high cheekbones and the strong, clean lines of her chin and jaw. Then he saw the steady beat at the side of her slender neck and realized with great relief that she lived. A trickle of blood ran along the stitching of the leather-covered steering wheel, however, spurring Jack back into action.

Withdrawing from the car, Jack hopped down off the branch, and dug his cell phone out of his pocket. He swept his sweat-stained straw cowboy hat up off the ground and automatically plopped it down over his shaggy brown hair as he jogged toward the top of the hill. Halfway up, he picked up a decent signal and dialed the clinic in Grasslands.

“Yeah,” he said to the woman who answered the phone, “this is Jack Colby. I need the doc and an ambulance out here on Franken Road. Car missed the curve at the bottom of Blackberry Hill. Female driver’s alive but unconscious. Better send out a few extra fellows and some planking, too. Car’s straddling the ditch. No,” he said in answer to a question. “Got no idea who she is, but she’s wearing a wedding veil with her jeans.”

After assuring the receptionist that he wasn’t kidding, Jack got off the phone and made his way back down the hill. Whoever she was, he told himself, she could thank God that she was alive. He prayed that she wouldn’t wind up in a coma like his mother.

Belle Colby had fallen from a horse over two months earlier and remained unresponsive. Jack couldn’t help feeling guilty because he had argued with her about their mysterious past just before she’d jumped on her grulla mare, Mouse, and charged off. Belle had always kept the past shrouded in secrecy, limiting the family to just herself, Jack and his younger sister, Violet, but he had longed to know the truth about his forebears.

He’d wanted to know if they had a father out there somewhere. Cousins? Aunts? Uncles? What about grandparents? Belle had refused to answer those questions, saying only that she was doing what was best for her children. After her accident, Jack had vowed to forget the past. But then the past had come to visit them with a vengeance, in the form of his sister Violet’s identical twin, Maddie.

Jack still couldn’t quite believe that he had two sisters instead of only one. Most difficult of all to accept was the fact that he, too, had an identical twin, Grayson, whom he had yet to meet. Their supposed father, Brian Wallace, who had raised Grayson and Maddie, had conveniently disappeared just after Belle’s accident.

Shaking his head, Jack focused once more on the problem at hand. Clambering back down to the car, he reached in and clasped the young woman’s limp hand.

“Won’t be long now,” he promised her. “Help’s on the way.”

While he waited, Jack brushed her hair from her face again, pressed his bandanna to the cut on her head until it stopped bleeding and made a cursory search of the car. Unfortunately, he came up empty and didn’t find so much as a piece of paper, let alone a handbag. He noted, too, that she wore no rings, despite the wedding veil. Ten minutes later, a squad car showed up, followed by the area’s lone ambulance and Doc Garth’s pearly white pickup truck, which was adorned with a long, metal ladder and a couple of wide boards sticking out over the tailgate. Using the ladder to span the ditch, they laid the boards atop it, inside the rails.

After removing the bridal veil and tossing it into the backseat of the small car, the doc—dressed in boots, jeans, a plaid shirt and pale, straw hat—did a quick examination. Outside of the clinic, the stethoscope sticking out of his shirt pocket was often the only sign of his occupation, and many of the cattlemen in the area could attest that he was as good a cowboy as he was a doctor.

“Scalp laceration,” he announced. “Probably a concussion. No other obvious injuries, but she’s out cold.” He waved at the police officer and female nurse who served as EMTs for the Grasslands Medical Clinic. “Let’s get her out of here.”

While the pair worked to get the victim out of the car and onto a gurney, Jack watched from the side of the road with the fiftyish doctor and the sheriff.

“We need a warning sign up on that hill,” Doc Garth decreed, pointing.

“Kids hereabouts just keep stealing it,” George Cole, the Grasslands sheriff , reported laconically. A stout, balding fellow of midheight in his mid-forties, George was as laid-back as it was possible for a man in his position to be. He lifted off his tan felt hat and wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his uniform shirt, saying, “But I’ll pull together some statistics and petition the county for a replacement any ol’ how.”

“Let me know if you need help with that,” Doc said, moving aside as the gurney rolled past him. “We’ve had way too many accidents out here, including some fatalities.” He trudged off toward the ambulance in his heavy, scuffed cowboy boots.

“I hear tell a whole family died back before my time,” George commented to no one in particular. “Well,” he went on, looking at Jack, “I reckon you better come into town and fill out a report, seeing as you’re the closest thing we got to a witness.”

“I’ll do that straightaway, George,” Jack promised, watching the EMTs cover the blonde’s pretty face with an oxygen mask. “What do you think the deal is with that veil?” he asked.

“Don’t know,” the sheriff replied, gingerly crossing the ladder to poke around inside the car. “We’ll ask her when she wakes up. Maybe she was running away from her wedding.”

“Maybe so,” Jack mused, rubbing the stubble on his chin, “but if that’s true, why isn’t she wearing an engagement ring or a wedding gown instead of jeans?”

“I got some more questions for you,” George said, backing out of the car. “Who is this gal? She’s got no ID at all unless it’s in her pockets. Hey, ya’ll,” he called out to the medical personnel, “check her pockets for a driver’s license.” He waved at the vehicle, adding, “Car’s got no tags, even. I noticed that right off.”

Jack walked around to get a look at the back of the vehicle, which was as bare as the chief had said. “Car’s a late model, though. Can’t be many around.”

George reached inside to turn the key in the ignition. “This baby’s brand spanking new,” he proclaimed. “Less than a hun’erd-fifty miles on the odometer.”

“Nothing here,” Doc called just then.

The sheriff parked his hands at his waist just above his gun belt and pushed out a sigh. “She’s a mystery, sure enough.”

Jack turned to watch as the gurney was loaded into the back of the ambulance. Lifting off his hat, he swept his hair out of his eyes. A beautiful mystery.

* * *

It felt as if someone had driven a spike into her head. She couldn’t imagine that to be the case, but she couldn’t think of anything else that could hurt like this.

A voice said, “She’s coming around.”

Despite having been spoken in soft, well-modulated tones, the words reverberated inside her skull like tolling bells. Moaning, she clamped her hands over her ears, aware that the movement awoke aches in other parts of her body.