His Forgotten Fiancée (Love Inspired Historical)

by Evelyn M. Hill

  He sat on a stump and leaned forward to demonstrate the sweeping motion of the scythe. “You’re not using the arms to power the movement. Use your legs and your, er, backside.” Matthew tried it, and Pa watched him carefully, then nodded. “Try it with the wheat.”

  Matthew swept the scythe in an arc, and stalks of wheat fell to one side, as neat a windrow as if Pa had done it himself.

  Liza had been standing back, not wanting to seem like she was hovering. But she had to ask him, “No headache?”

  “Not a bit,” he said cheerfully, rubbing the back of his neck.

  Pa looked satisfied. “Then you’d best get started. I’ll get on with my chores. Fresh fish for supper tonight.”

  “Pretty sure of yourself,” Liza teased. She so dearly wanted to return to an atmosphere where she and Pa weren’t arguing. “The fish don’t always feel like being caught, I understand.”

  “Maybe today I’ll talk them into it.” He winked at her. Then he looked over at Matthew. He cleared his throat. “Well, then.” He gave Matthew a last, doubting look before he tucked the crutches under his armpits and swung off up the hill.

  “I’m not sure your father entirely trusts me.” Matthew squinted after Pa’s retreating figure. “He moves pretty quickly on those things.”

  “Yes, even though it hurts him. He’s too impatient. It galls him to be doing what he considers women’s work, cooking meals and such, but until his legs are strong enough, he’s stuck with chores that can be done round the house. Most afternoons, he makes his way down to the creek. He’s got his favorite fishing spot where he likes to go.” She wrinkled her nose. “We’ve been eating a lot of fish lately.”

  “I don’t mind,” he said gallantly. “Shall I begin? I can’t rely on my memory, but I suspect that I’ve never done this before.”

  “Neither have I, not without Pa or someone who’s done it themselves.”

  He looked at her, a crease forming between his eyebrows. “But surely, you don’t mean that you’re going to be working out in the fields, as well?”

  “There is no one else to help you. Don’t you trust me?”

  “You are a woman.” He was looking at her more severely now, his dark brows drawn together. “It is not fitting for a woman to work out in the fields. It’s manual labor.”

  “That’s life in the West,” she said simply. “We all do the work that needs doing. Didn’t you see the women on our way here yesterday? They were out in the fields right next to their men.” When he started to say more, she took a step closer and put a hand on his arm to emphasize her words. “There is no one else. We’ll have to get the harvest in between the two of us.”

  He shook his head, but he could not argue that point. He frowned down at her hand, still resting on his arm. Hurriedly, she removed it, but his expression did not lighten. “Can you at least put on a bonnet? There’s no shade.”

  Enough. She put her hands on her hips. “Look, Mr. high and mighty lawyer, I know you love to argue, but ain’t no one paying you to do that at the moment. Let’s try getting some work done. I promise to let you argue at me all you like afterward.”

  “I don’t know why I bother arguing with you in the first place. You’ve been winning all the arguments since I first met you.”

  The first time I met you, I was crossing a tiny creek and fell in. The water barely came up to my knees, but the sun was in my eyes, dazzling me until I could hardly see. You laughed and fished me out. You called me a tenderfoot and teased me, and for a moment I thought you were going to kiss me.

  That was another memory he no longer shared with her. She turned away. “Let’s get started.”

  * * *

  Matthew discovered he liked using the scythe. Gripping the snath, he swept the blade in an arc, keeping it low to the ground. The cradle attached to one side of the scythe scooped up the wheat stalks and laid them out on the ground to his left. Then he stepped forward and swept the scythe again. Another step, another sweep of the blade. He could mark his passage through the field by the ever-lengthening row of stalks lying on the ground on his left. The kitten watched for a little while, then went off to explore the bushes along the stream.

  Liza followed behind him. She gathered up the stalks, winding another stalk of wheat around the bundle and tying it into a knot. He stole a glance at her. Her fair face was flushed; sweat trickled down and she wiped her brow, but she did not stop bending over and gathering up the stalks.

  It was laborious work until he developed a rhythm. At first, he was conscious of the heat of the sun through the thin cotton of his shirt, of sweat trickling between his shoulder blades. But soon he lost awareness of everything but the swish of the scythe, the sound of birdsong, and the sense that he was participating in life, becoming part of something greater than himself. There was a definite feeling of satisfaction when he reached the end of the row and looked back to see what he had accomplished. Here, the results of his efforts were tangible and immediately rewarding, not just searching through dusty tomes for some legal precedent.

  The sun was shining directly overhead now. When he lifted his head to squint at it, the light stabbed at him. He rubbed his eyes.

  “Are you getting tired?” Liza finished gathering up the last sheaf and straightened. She said, anxiously, “We could sit in the shade to rest. Just for a minute. Please?”

  He could’ve kept going, but she looked so worried, standing there with that little frown between her eyebrows. It bothered him, that frown. He did not want to be responsible for it. “I guess we could take a break, just for a bit.”

  He sat down with her in the shade of an oak tree whose branches leaned over the stream and accepted the cup of water she poured for him. The water was surprisingly cold for such a warm day. Liza picked up a pail from where it had been half submerged in the stream and produced a couple of hard-boiled eggs and some apples that had been wrapped in a napkin. “How are you feeling?”

  She still had that line between her brows. It bothered him, more than he liked, that she was worrying over him. Was she concerned about his health or was she thinking about the harvest? “Don’t look so worried. I feel fine. I think we can easily finish this field today.”

  She lowered her voice, not that there was anyone around to hear. Just the two of them and the sky overhead and the tall stalks of grain all around. “Pa always says it’s important to get as much done in the day as you can when it’s harvesttime. You never know when it’s going to start raining.”

  Matthew arched his back, stretching his muscles as he looked up at the intensely blue sky overhead. The few clouds that dotted the sky were the purest white. “I think we’re safe for the moment.”

  “It’ll be a full moon in a few weeks. Then we’ll be able to work late into the night if we need to.”

  “You harvest by the light of the moon?”

  “I forgot. Some people were raised in the city, went off to a fancy-dancy school in Boston and spent their summers gadding around Europe.”

  Not a spark of recognition or a flicker of familiarity. Odd, that he could quote Shakespeare without hesitation but not remember crossing the Atlantic. She might as well have been talking about a stranger. For one thing, he could not imagine walking away from this woman, not if she were his. Or at least, not if he could remember her being his. If he could remember being engaged to Liza, he would have the right to put his arms around her right now as they were sitting here, rest her head on his shoulder and know that she was his and no man could take her from him. He let out a sigh.

  “Tired?” Liza asked.

  “No, not really.” He stretched out his legs in front of him and reached for an apple. His muscles were a bit tired, but in a good way, like a body that had been well used for the purpose it was made for. Here, at the end of the day, he could see the results of his efforts. He’d never felt like that sitting in an office all day.

&n
bsp; A dusty airless room, surrounded by books, a desk piled high with papers. No matter how long he worked, the level of paperwork never seemed to get any less. Outside in the street, he could hear life going on all around him. Men passing by talking, a woman’s laugh. Somewhere, a child singing about robins in the spring. The rattle of wagons as they drove past. Heading west. A vague longing, of feeling like a life not being fully lived, gifts unused, promises unfulfilled. Was he a faithful steward of the talents he had been given? Life was passing him by while he sat in his office and read papers all day.

  Yes. That was where it had started—that was what had led him out on the Oregon Trail in the first place. He felt a rush of excitement that he had a piece of his life back, that he remembered something from before that night in Oregon City. A door had opened in that locked room that was his mind. It had only opened a crack, but it was like being in a darkened room and seeing a chink of light. He was going to recover his memory. He would be whole again.

  He mentioned this to Liza, and her face lit up with pleasure. “Your memory is coming back! Oh, that is wonderful news. The doctor was right after all. We just need to be patient, and soon you will remember everything.”

  He wished he could share her faith. Then his dream from this morning came back to him. “I think I remember more about the men who attacked me. I remember asking for directions from people passing by. The first man pointed me in quite the wrong direction. I think...he might have been Mr. Brown. I’m not positive,” he added hastily. “I might be confusing a dream with an actual memory. But it feels right.” Unless he was letting his innate dislike of Mr. Brown influence him, which was also possible. “It’s all supposition. I would hate to go into court with a case that relied on the memories of an injured man.”

  Despite his doubts, Liza was in a thoughtful mood all afternoon as the sun traveled its arc overhead and began to sink down behind the western ridge. Working to bundle up the last of the wheat sheaves in the row they had just finished, she said, “I know there’s still an hour or so of daylight left, but I was thinking this might be a good place to stop.”

  He looked over at the rest of the wheat still standing tall in the field. She followed his gaze. “Yes, I know. You probably could go on and get more done today. But you don’t want to push yourself too far. It’s only been a couple days since you were hit on the head and went around fainting all over the place.”

  “I’m not an invalid,” Matthew retorted. “That was just a lack of food, as the doctor said.”

  Liza looked up at him with such an anxious, pleading look that Matthew relented. He could not refuse when she had that expression on her face. For some reason, it made him feel all unsettled inside, like something was gnawing at his gut. He decided not to analyze the sensation too closely. Some ideas were best left unexplored, safe in the back of his mind. It was just being a gentleman, to yield to her inclination.

  “All right, if you wish it. We could stop here for the day.”

  “Thank you.” She flashed a smile at him. There it was again, that troubling, inexplicable urge to touch her, to lift the strand of her hair that had slipped out of her braid. Her hair would feel smooth as silk running through his fingers. He drew back and cleared his throat hastily. “What are you—” His voice came out more harshly than he had intended, and he could see her step back a pace. He gentled his tone and tried again. “What are you thinking?”

  “I made a deal with you, to help bring back your memory. I was thinking we could take a walk, I could show you a bit more of the claim than you’ve seen so far, and I could tell you more about your life. It’s already starting to come back, so let’s see if we can help you remember more.”

  And maybe I could remember you? It was certainly worth a try.

  Chapter Seven

  They left the little kitten curled up under a fern. He opened one eye as they passed him, and then tucked his head back down and went back to sleep.

  This time, Liza led Matthew directly up the path that bordered the creek. The path began to climb the western ridge, the water rushing between steep banks. Maple trees were replaced by firs, first a few and then many more, until it felt almost as if he were walking through a green, tree-enclosed tunnel. His footfalls sounded oddly muffled against the mossy ground.

  They climbed up to a point where the stream began to narrow, plunging down in its channel. A massive tree had fallen across the stream, its roots sticking straight out across their path. To his surprise, Liza put one foot on a root and began to climb up onto the tree. She moved lightly, graceful as any ballet dancer but completely natural, and utterly unconscious of how lovely she looked.

  “Where are you going?”

  She reached the trunk of the tree and half turned, balancing on top of it. “I want to show you the highest point of the claim. It’s...well, it’s rather special to me. I’d like you to see it.”

  “Careful.” A sudden breeze billowed her skirt out around her, and he moved swiftly onto the top of the tree trunk, one hand closing around her arm to steady her.

  She smiled up at him. “I’m all right, really.”

  “Well, you don’t want to take chances,” he said gruffly. “Don’t want people to think you’re a tenderfoot.”

  Her smile faded. She stared at him with a peculiar intensity, as if his words held some deeper meaning. The silence lengthened between them, grew into something else. It was as if she were speaking to him in a language he could not understand. He could feel his face growing warm. Had he offended her? Something was off, at any rate. “I’m sorry,” he offered at last. “I don’t know why I called you that, exactly.”

  She turned away. The moment, whatever it had been about, was lost. “It’s nothing,” she called over her shoulder. “Come on. I want to make it up to the ridge before sunset.”

  She led him across the stream and up the hill on the other side. The trees at the top stood out as dark columns with the late-afternoon sun slanting between them. Ahead of him, he saw Liza silhouetted against the light, and he stopped in his tracks.

  The sunlight caught in her hair, transforming blond into a dazzling whiteness. She looked back at him, standing still on the path. “Come on,” she said, laughing at his slowness, and something changed inside him. He forgot about his uncertainties, about the need to regain his memories. All that mattered at that moment was the woman before him. It was the way she gave herself up to full-out laughter, holding nothing back, giving herself over to joy. It sent bubbles of elation surging through his veins.

  He bounded up the last few feet of the path to join her.

  He stood in a circle of trees—cedars, perhaps, or something similar—that enclosed a small, grassy clearing. The trees were enormous, with trunks straight as pillars that soared up as if reaching toward the sky. Between the tree trunks on the west, he could see open sky; they were on the edge of a ridge, looking out at a glorious scene. The setting sun turned the sky to gold and pink and purple in an almost impossibly pretty display, like a tinted lithograph.

  Behind him, the stream rushed down its bed, running over rocks with a liquid, musical sound. Above him, a breeze stirred the trees, moving through the branches like a river rushing over his head. The effect was like standing on a different plane, caught between air and water on an island that floated, detached from the everyday world.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” Liza spoke in a hushed voice, as if she were shy, but she was watching him closely. He could feel her eyes on him. It felt again as if she were trying to tell him something, but not in words. “It reminds me of those churches you used to talk about, the ones in Europe.”

  He tilted his head, puzzled. “This reminds you of a church?”

  “You told me about churches there where the walls went up so high it felt like the men who constructed them were trying to build straight up to heaven. That’s what I thought of when I first saw this place.”

>   He angled his head up to study the shafts of light that filtered down through the branches, like light through a stained-glass window. No sound but birdsong and the wind in the trees. He could feel the muscles in his neck and shoulders beginning to relax. He hadn’t realized how tensely he’d been holding himself. Once he let his guard down, a memory slipped in.

  “Yes,” he said slowly. “I do remember going to Europe. I managed to get a scholarship to a school back east. Most of the other students were from Boston, the upper crust of society. I would help them with their schoolwork, and they took me about town. Sometimes I went to visit them during vacations. One summer, they all went off to see the sites of Europe. One of my friends, Ned, his father had wanted me to work for him once I got out of college. That summer, he offered to send me along on their tour. He wanted me to keep an eye on Ned, be a steadying influence. So I did my own Grand Tour.”

  Liza’s lips curved into a smile that sent warmth racing through his body. “You’re remembering more and more all the time! You never told me all this before.”

  He could not help but smile back at her. It felt marvelous to know so much about himself. “I knew I’d seen volcanoes before I came here. We went to Italy. I brought a guidebook and kept reading it to learn about everything I was going to see. They thought that was the most foolish idea they’d ever heard of.” His smile faded. He remembered other details about his trip to Europe. That probably was why he hadn’t told Liza too much about his trip.

  “It doesn’t sound as if you had a lot in common with them.”

  “No, not really. Good fellows, for the most part, but they’d never have to work for anything they wanted. It was all handed to them. Ned, for example, would’ve gone to work for his father whether he’d passed his exams or not.”

  “Why didn’t you take up the offer from Ned’s father to work for him after you finished school?”

  “I might have, but...” His brows drew together with the effort of remembering. “Something happened. My mother...my mother got sick.” Thinking about his mother brought back his headache. He sighed with exasperation.