His Forgotten Fiancée (Love Inspired Historical)

by Evelyn M. Hill

  “Yes, but there’s no need to shout to the whole world that you want nothing to do with me.”

  “I told three people,” Matthew snapped, his patience beginning to fray.

  “You told Mavis Boone,” Liza said grimly. “Trust me, everyone else in the territory will hear about it.”

  “I’m sorry if what I said hurt your feelings. That was not my intention.”

  She sighed. “I’m sure it wasn’t.” Her shoulders slumped, and she turned away and went back into the front room, shutting the door behind her.

  When Matthew came out, Liza was making slow going of wrapping up the bolt of fabric that Mrs. Graham had been examining. She kept her eyes fixed on the fabric even when he came up to the counter. “I am sorry that I offended you,” he said, his tone softer. “I thought I was being practical, making sure everyone knew that I was not in a position to continue an engagement made in the past. I should have thought of how it would sound. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

  She returned the bolt of fabric to the shelf, but when she turned back, she still avoided his gaze. “I guess I understand how you feel,” she said softly.

  “Do you?” His tone was so low she barely caught it. “I wish I did. You have no idea how lost I feel right now.” Then he turned and went back into the other room. The door shut behind him.

  Liza closed her eyes for a moment, willing herself not to cry. Lord, please lead him out of his darkness. Lead him back to me. Or help me to let go of him for good.

  Chapter Three

  The McKays arrived shortly before noon. After they paid her for her work, Liza and Matthew emerged into the bright sunshine of a fall day.

  Matthew looked around in surprise. For some reason, he’d expected to see a rough wilderness settlement. Instead, he found himself on a street several blocks long, crowded with stores, homes and churches built from sawn lumber or even from brick. The sound of the waterfall upriver was a constant muted thunder.

  Liza pointed down to where a barge was slowly ferrying a horse and wagon across the river. “That’s how we get back to the claim, across the river and over the ridge.”

  Matthew blinked up at the sunlight. It didn’t hurt him the way the lantern light had last night. He must be getting better. He turned to Liza. “Are we going there now?”

  “Not yet. Come with me.” She set off down the plank sidewalk.

  He caught up with her easily, maneuvering around her so that he walked on the side by the dusty road. “Might I ask where we are going?”

  “We’re going to see Mr. Keller.”

  A pause. Drily, he asked, “And...should I recognize that name?”

  “He’s one of the people who came out on the wagon train with us. He runs the local newspaper now, so we’ll be sure to find him in.”

  “What would meeting him achieve?”

  “Seeing a familiar face might stimulate your memory.”

  “If seeing you didn’t stimulate it, I doubt other people will be able to trigger it.”

  “Well, we won’t know unless we try. Maybe they were more important to you.”

  He flicked a glance at her. Was there a note of resentment in there? She was stomping along on the plank sidewalk as though she had a personal grudge against it.

  “Wait.” She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Matthew took hold of her elbow and drew her aside to avoid a man coming the other way. She turned to face the opposite direction. “We should go see Frank first.”

  “Ah. Frank. Of course.” Another pause. “Are you going to keep throwing names at me and expecting me to deduce who they are?”

  She gave him a sidelong glance and looked away, her cheeks a lovely shade of pink. “You never used to be this cantankerous. Frank Dawson is the local sheriff.” She set off again.

  “You are on a first-name basis with the sheriff? Is he a relative, by any chance?”

  “For a man who doesn’t plan to stay around, you surely ask a lot of questions. I’m trying to help you. If anyone can track down the men who attacked you, Frank can.”

  Possibly. And possibly he could find out what it was about the man that embarrassed her. He didn’t like secrets. His whole life felt like a secret—one being kept from him.

  * * *

  Frank Dawson annoyed Matthew from the moment Matthew escorted Liza into the little office next to the jail.

  His dislike had nothing to do with the overly familiar way the sheriff greeted Liza. Not his business. Well, unless she objected. Then he might get the opportunity to explain to the graceless lout that a gentleman did not put his paw on a lady’s shoulder as if he had a right to touch her.

  Sadly, Liza merely gave the oaf a polite nod and took a step back before seating herself on a chair next to the sheriff’s desk. She looked expectantly at Matthew. He sighed, very softly, and sat down, as well.

  The sheriff stared at him, tugging on his mustache, while Liza performed the introductions and explained what happened. Matthew got the impression that the sheriff didn’t seem to think there was much he could discover, that a man should expect that kind of thing when you were this far from civilization. Still, he took down the details of the attack that Matthew could remember, such as they were. Then he laid down his pencil and turned to Matthew. “Fiancé, so I’ve heard. Fancy word for saying you’re promised. Of course, people don’t always keep promises.” His chair creaked as the sheriff leaned back, steepling his fingers and studying Matthew.

  Enough of this. Matthew was not a violent man, but the proprietary way this oaf was looking at Liza made his hands clench. He probably should leave before he said something ill advised. It was none of his business, so long as Liza didn’t object. He had to remember that.

  Matthew climbed to his feet. Liza rose as well, putting her hand on his sleeve. “We can’t stay,” she told the sheriff. “I just wanted to make sure you got all the details of the men who attacked Matthew.”

  The sheriff’s mustache twitched as though he had more to say, but he just gave a short nod. Probably the man lacked the intellectual capability to carry out any sort of investigation, but Matthew wasn’t sure what else to do. He was grasping at straws.

  Their next stop was a humble clapboard building, painted white. It was wedged between two more pretentious buildings, whose false fronts made them look like proper two-story buildings until you saw behind the facade. “Are you busy, Mr. Keller?” Liza called.

  “I’m always busy,” a gruff voice responded from the back room before an older man with flyaway white hair emerged, wiping ink-stained hands on a rag. Matthew couldn’t tell if Mr. Keller’s face was flushed red from temper or exertion, but the man came up to the counter and nodded a polite enough greeting to them. “I never expected a newspaper to be a flourishing concern in such a small town, but every time an ox strays, whether accidentally or because some thief is leading it, people come racing over here demanding that I put a notice in the paper about it.”

  Matthew looked at Liza and shook his head. “I don’t remember meeting this man before.” Nothing about him sparked a memory. There were plenty of sparks when he looked at Liza, though not related to his memory. Safer not to think about that. The last thing he needed was a distraction, especially one with a lovely face framed by wispy blond hair.

  “Maybe if he talks to you about things you said or did while part of the wagon train, that might spark a memory.”

  Liza explained his situation to Mr. Keller, and Matthew did his best to stand there and not feel like the latest exhibit in a menagerie. Mr. Keller squinted up at Matthew, started to say something, then stopped and squinted again.

  The older man walked slowly around him like he was a horse being offered for sale. Matthew half expected the man to check his teeth. “Well—” His voice quavered. “Well, I don’t know what to say. I remember your young man, but this don’t look like him. I never
talked to him all that much, anyway.”

  Well, then. That’s that. Matthew started to take Liza’s arm to escort her out, but she did not budge. Her eyes remained fixed on Mr. Keller. “You never talked with a man you saw every day for months?”

  “He was pretty aloof on the trail.”

  “Quiet,” Liza said.

  “Kept to himself.”

  “Reserved.” She crossed her arms and glared at Mr. Keller.

  Matthew cocked one eyebrow at her. It felt odd, someone so dainty stepping up to be his champion. It was a new sensation, but he rather liked watching this little spitfire stand up for him. He said mildly, “The fact is that this man does not remember me and I do not remember him. We are back where we started.”

  Mr. Keller said, “I recollect that your man used to talk some with old Mrs. Martin, help her carrying water and such. Maybe you could ask her.”

  Matthew thought that Liza was forcing her smile as she thanked the other man. Certainly, this smile had nothing of the effect of the one she had given him when they were alone in the dry goods store. Thankfully.

  He opened the door for her and followed her outside again. Standing on the plank sidewalk, he said, “I’m not sure meeting people I’m supposed to know is having any effect on my memory.”

  “You can’t be sure from just that one encounter. I’ll introduce you to everyone we met on the wagon train if that’s what it takes to help you remember.” She sighed. “Except most of them aren’t around this area. The available land near here was claimed before we came, so people went down south, toward Salem. Never mind. Meeting old Mrs. Martin will trigger your memory.”

  When they arrived at Mrs. Martin’s place, her daughter-in-law listened to Liza’s explanation, then she looked at Matthew doubtfully. “She’s been feeling poorly of late. But I remember her telling us how kind the people she came out with had been. I was glad to hear it. It worried me that she came out on a wagon train without family to help her, but she said she had to come. After we left, she found she couldn’t bear to be parted from Tad, not after losing her other sons.”

  She led them into a stuffy back room, smelling strongly of a mixture of lavender and licorice cough drops. An older woman sat in a rocking chair, reading her Bible. “Mama, this man here wants to know if you remember him.”

  He stepped into the room and stopped, assaulted by a memory. An older woman, the lines in her face carved from pain and years of hard work. Matthew frowned, trying to grasp the memory that had surfaced. Something about coming too late. Even as he reached for it, the image slipped away, elusive as a fish in a stream.

  The frail older woman put down her book and took off her spectacles. She took one look at Matthew, and her face lit up with joy. “Yes, that’s him! That’s him. You’ve found him.” Her hands came out to caress his cheek. Tears ran down her face. “That’s him. That’s my son Elliott.” She asked Liza, “Have you seen his brother Quincy? They told me they got a fever and they died, but I knew better. I knew you’d come back to me.”

  Liza winced. This all was her fault. Matthew, looking intensely uncomfortable, tried to step back. Mrs. Martin clung to him, pressing her cheek against his jacket and crying.

  “Madam, forgive me, but—” His voice faded. He raised one hand and gave a few tentative pats on her shoulder. “It will be all right.” Liza had never heard him speak so gently. His deep voice carried conviction in a way that was subtly reassuring. “If the Lord took your sons, then He has them safe. He’ll keep them in His heart until you can see them again. It will be all right.” Despite his own obvious discomfort, he wanted to offer comfort to the poor woman.

  Mrs. Martin’s daughter-in-law roused herself from her mortified stupor and stepped in to soothe the older woman. Liza grabbed Matthew’s arm and they left.

  Out in the fresh air again, Matthew took a deep breath. His face was even more pale than it had been last night. “Please tell me there isn’t anyone else you think I should meet today.”

  Something twisted inside her, right about the region of her heart, at the thought of putting him through any more trauma. “One more person. The barber. You were clean shaven when Mr. Keller and Mrs. Martin knew you. How can you expect anyone to recognize you when you look so different?”

  “I do not currently possess any funds.” He fingered the ends of his beard. “And you have already paid for the doctor’s visit.”

  “I’ll take it out of your wages,” she said lightly. “You want people to recognize you, not run away in fright.”

  Under that fearsome beard, she thought that she saw one corner of his mouth twitch upward. “Lead on, m’lady.”

  While Matthew was at the barber’s, Liza went to stock up on supplies. Coming down the sidewalk, she saw Mr. Brown walking toward her, his head bent so he did not see her. By his side walked Dr. Graham. They were deep in discussion. She hurried into Abernethy’s mercantile store before they noticed her. Mr. Brown always made her uncomfortable. It was the way he stared at her. Made her feel as if she was touching a toad.

  She bought tea, beans and, of course, salmon jerky, since it was so prevalent. If she could persuade her father to build a smokehouse, they could make their own. But that was a battle she would have to fight later. Once they harvested the grain, they’d have enough to live on through the winter. That was all she could concentrate on at the moment.

  At least, that was all she could concentrate on before she stepped out of the store and saw Matthew coming down the sidewalk in his slow, easy stride.

  She stopped moving. Somehow, she had forgotten how handsome he was. Clean shaven, with neatly trimmed hair, his impact swept over her like a physical wave. High cheekbones, elegant bone structure, those thin well-shaped lips that used to smile at her so easily. Only a bruise on one side of that square jaw and the thin red line by his temple reminded her of the injured man who had stood in her doorway last night demanding to know who he was.

  He raised one eyebrow. “Do I pass muster?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You’re staring.”

  She swallowed her disappointment. For a moment, she had expected him to be his old self again, holding out his hands to her and smiling. The new Matthew did not behave like that.

  She felt sorrow for the loss, something precious as gold slipping through her fingers. If ever he loved her, that part of him was forgotten. Maybe he’d never loved her at all. How could she tell?

  “You’ll do.” She hefted the basket with her shopping, but he slipped it from her grasp. He offered her his left arm, escorting her down Main Street for all the world as if he were promenading down the finest street in St. Louis on a Sunday afternoon. Despite her depression, she spared a moment to be amused by his air. He had always treated her like a rare precious object. Right up to the point he had left. How many other women had he treated in the exact same manner while he’d been away? Granny Whitlow’s comment about all the pretty women in California was probably true. She sighed. He looked at her sideways but made no comment on her mood.

  When they got to the livery stables, they found Frank Dawson leaning against the wall, arms folded. He ignored Matthew and spoke to Liza. “I’d like a word with you.”

  Matthew frowned, but he handed the basket back to her. “I’ll help harness the horse.”

  Frank waited until Matthew was out of earshot before he spoke. “Are you serious about that man? He looks like a vagabond, from what I can tell.”

  “I thought he looked much more respectable now that he’s had a shave and a haircut.”

  “He don’t seem like the man you described when you came up here, is all.”

  “Frank Dawson, I told you I was engaged the first time I met you.” Her hands gripped the basket more tightly, and she narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you thinkin’ I’m a liar?”

  He held up his hands. “Whoa! Don’t be so hasty. I’m thi
nkin’ you don’t know what you want. And this man just dropped in out of nowhere. You might be mistaken.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You just watch yourself, that’s all. Don’t trust him too far. I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”

  She nodded, but she did not relax until he was out of sight. Frank wasn’t a bad person, and she liked him, but she wished he wasn’t so protective. She wasn’t the least bit interested in him romantically. She had been clear on that point from the day they met, but he wasn’t listening. None of the men in her life seemed to want to listen to her. She wanted what she had had with Matthew on the trail—that sureness of belonging with him—wanted it so badly that she ached with the loss. The loss felt like missing a part of herself. If he no longer wanted her, well, she would have to accept that. But she would not settle for less. She knew the difference now.

  As she climbed into the wagon, Matthew dropped something small into her lap. “Here.”

  She looked down. A black-and-white bundle of fluff was making a determined effort to climb up her bodice. Round green eyes met hers, innocent and curious. “What is this?”

  He very deliberately did not look at her. Instead, he settled into the seat next to her, took up the reins and flicked them against the horse’s rump. As the horse started to move off, she was distracted from the little bundle of energy in her lap to protest. “I can drive.”

  “The fact that you are able to do so does not in any way imply that you should have to do so.”

  “You can’t expect me to sit here like a fine lady from back east who does nothing.” She couldn’t decide whether to laugh or to scowl right back at the man. “It is a bit late now for me to start acting all helpless. Since you left, I’ve learned to fend for myself. I had to. And you are avoiding the subject of this cat.”

  “Kitten,” he said, still looking ahead instead. “Only a couple months old. I have it on good authority that he likes having his ears ‘scritched.’ Turns out Jim Barnes felt the need for a harmonica. I suggested a trade.”