“Whoa!” John pulled the wagon to a stop and handed the reins to Matt. “Stay here.” He threw the order over his shoulder as he jumped to the ground. The instincts he’d honed as a policemen kicked in as he strode toward the injured woman—likely a victim of the train wreck.
“Were you in the train accident?” He hurried to close the distance between them.
She didn’t answer, but proceeded to stumble down the weeded incline that banked the road. John quickened his pace. The way she swayed with each step, he was amazed that she’d stayed upright this long, and he expected her to fall in a heap at any moment. Now on the road, she stopped and gave him a puzzled look, like she’d never seen a person before. Dried blood matted her reddish-blond hair above her forehead. Her blank stare suggested confusion brought on by shock. She took a teetering step toward him and mouthed something he couldn’t hear.
The instant he reached out and grasped her waist she collapsed into his arms. He lifted her up and noticed she was wearing no shoes, only torn and bloodstained white stockings. She looked up at him with huge terror-filled blue eyes that clawed at his heart. Her lips—full, perfectly shaped lips—were trying to form words devoid of sound. Finally, he managed to make out the smallest whisper of “Help me. Help.” Then her eyes closed and her head lolled against his chest.
Fear shot through John like an electric shock. He could be witnessing this woman’s last moments on earth. Please, Lord, don’t let her die in my arms. “Don’t worry. I’ll help you. You’re going to be all right.” Though he had no idea if she could hear him, saying the words aloud cemented John’s resolve to make them come true. “Matt, take the reins!” he hollered as he carried the woman to the back of the buckboard.
“Is she from the train wreck?” Matt’s jaw hung slack, his eyes widening.
“I presume so.” John laid the woman in the wagon bed, then climbed in beside her.
“Is—is she dead?” Matt’s voice turned breathless as he pivoted on the buckboard’s seat to peer at the injured woman.
John was glad to see that the sight of gore had lost some of its appeal for his young cousin. “No, she’s only fainted. Now get us back to the house as quickly as old Bob can trot, and try to miss the majority of ruts in the road.” John pressed his back against the wagon’s side and cradled the woman against him, praying she would still be alive when they reached the house.
When they pulled up to the farmhouse, John had Matt run ahead and alert his grandmother to the situation while John carried his precious burden through the kitchen door.
“She was in the train wreck, but she ain’t dead, not yet, anyway,” Matt blurted as he held the screen door open for John.
“Oh my goodness!” Aunt Clara whirled from the sink, wiping dishwater from her hands. “Put her in the spare bedroom, John.” She bustled ahead up the stairs to the guestroom and hurried to turn down her prize rose-patterned quilt.
“You might want to put away your nice quilt, Aunt Clara.” John glanced down at the woman in his arms covered in blood, dirt, and grass stains.
Aunt Clara stood aside, her fists pressed against her ample waist. “I keep this room ready for whoever needs it, and, by the looks of her, she needs it. Now, quit worryin’ about the quilt and lay her down on the bed.”
John couldn’t help grinning. Aunt Clara was in her element: eager to take charge of whatever emergency presented itself. He did as she ordered.
Aunt Clara turned to her wide-eyed grandson. “Matt, heat up a wash pan full of water and bring me a wash rag, some towels, and a bar of soap.”
Matt nodded and headed off on the errand. Aunt Clara looked at John. “We’ll need to let somebody know she’s here. Did she say who she is?”
John shook his head. “She didn’t say much—seemed pretty addled.”
A soft groan drew their attention back to the woman on the bed. She opened her eyes, and her glance darted around the room, reminding John of a cornered animal. “Where—where am I?” Her weak voice sounded so frightened it broke John’s heart. He started toward her, but Aunt Clara got there first.
“Now, now, dear. You are safe.” Aunt Clara bent and smoothed the matted strands of hair from the woman’s face. “You’ve been in a terrible accident, but you’re safe now.”
“Where?” Her blue eyes looked desperate. “Where am I?”
“You’re in Eden, Indiana, on our dairy farm.” John stepped closer to the bed. “What’s your name? We’ll let the authorities know you’re here, and they will contact your family.”
A confused look furrowed her brow. She pushed up to a sitting position and touched the wound on her head, still oozing blood. “I don’t know,” she whispered, a tone of surprise creeping into her voice. Her widening gaze grew wild as it flitted between John and Aunt Clara, and her voice turned frantic. “I don’t know who I am!”
Chapter Two
I don’t know who I am!” The realization struck her like a club to the stomach, knocking the breath from her lungs. The puzzled faces of the man and woman before her offered no help. “Why can’t I remember?” A suffocating panic squeezed her chest, and she struggled to get out of bed, but the middle-aged woman in a blue cotton dress and white apron gently pressed her back against the soft pillow.
“Now, now, dear. Don’t excite yourself. You’ve been in a terrible accident.” The woman patted her hand. “I’m sure it will all come back to you soon.” Though kindly, the woman’s unfamiliar round face framed by gray hair secured at the back of her head in a bun, offered scant comfort.
The need to find something familiar—anything familiar—became overwhelming. The man. She had thought him an angel when she first saw him coming toward her on the road. She struggled to remember—anything—and clung with a death grip to every precious memory as if it were a priceless jewel. She remembered being in a dim, frightening place. Seeing a bright portal and crawling through it to the light while razor-sharp protrusions ripped at her clothes and flesh. Running through a meadow toward trees. Seeing a man. A strong man with kind hazel eyes and wearing overalls and a blue chambray shirt. This man. Being lifted up and held against the comforting warmth of his shirt that smelled like a barnyard. How did she know what a barnyard smelled like?
“I know you. You are my angel.” She searched his handsome face for a flicker of recognition.
The angel-man stepped closer to the bed, and a wry smile touched his lips. “I assure you I am nowhere close to being an angel.” He glanced at the older woman beside him. “My aunt Clara will attest to that.”
She grasped his hand, desperate to clutch onto this one scrap of familiarity. “Who am I? Please, tell me.”
“All I know is that I found you wandering on the road after the train wreck.” Compassion touched his voice and softened his hazel eyes.
“I was in a train wreck?” Remember. Why couldn’t she remember? Renewed panic gripped her chest, and she gasped for breath. “My name. I need to know my name!” An indescribable feeling of desolation enveloped her. Frantic for even the smallest measure of comfort, she crossed her arms over her chest and hugged herself. Surrendering to the wave of despair crushing down on her, she began to rock. “My name, I need to know my name.” She forced the words through her sobs.
Suddenly the comforting warmth she’d experienced earlier in the arms of the angel-man engulfed her. The same deep, soothing voice she’d heard on the road assuring herthat she would be all right whispered soft hushes against her hair.
“I can tell you who you are.” He held her and rocked her as if she were a small child. “You are a precious child of God. Your name is Eve.” He drew back and gazed into her eyes. His smile warmed her all the way to the center of her heart, and the crippling fear that had bound her like a straightjacket began to loosen and slip away. He gently brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Eve was the name of God’s first daughter, and it will do until you can remember another.”
Eve. Yes, she liked the sound. Her panic ebbing, Eve blinked away r
emnants of tears from her eyes. Amazing how having a name to call herself calmed her fear and lent a sense of identity that felt like an anchor amid a raging gale. She settled back against the pillow again and managed a wobbly smile. “I like the name Eve.”
His smile widened. “Hello, Eve. I’m John Weston and this is my aunt, Clara Weston.”
The sound of footsteps drew their attention toward the open bedroom door. A wide-eyed boy who looked to be in his teens stood at the threshold holding a large, steaming enamel pan, his shoulder draped with towels.
John nodded toward the boy. “This is my cousin Matthew, Aunt Clara’s grandson.”
Matthew didn’t smile or otherwise acknowledge the introduction. He stood frozen in place, staring at her with silver-dollar-sized eyes.
Clara bustled over to the boy and took possession of the items, including a waxy ivory lump he fished from his pocket. “Now you boys clear out while Eve and I have a nice talk and we get her cleaned up.”
Minutes later, washed and clad in a voluminous cotton nightgown, Eve settled back against the pillow and, for the first time, enjoyed a measure of ease.
Clara clicked her tongue as she examined Eve’s discarded gray frock. She held the garment up to the sunlight streaming through the window. “I’m afraid it is ruined, dear.” She shook her head. “Nice material, too—worsted cotton. A shame.” She turned to Eve, regret shining in her brown eyes. “I might be able to mend the tears, but I doubt I could get all the blood stains out, and it would never be nice again.”
“I don’t remember it, so I care nothing about it.” Eve managed a weak smile, wishing that the ruined frock was her greatest concern.
“What is this?” Clara bent and squinted at the dress’s collar. “Looks like a label of some kind. ‘H. R. Kenyon & Co., Buffalo, NY.’ ”She turned to Eve. “Does that mean anything to you?”
“No.” Eve shook her head, and the panic that had abated came rushing back. Fresh tears sprang into her eyes and slipped down her face. Why couldn’t she remember… something. Anything.
Clara’s face crumpled with regret. She dropped the dress to the floor and hurried to Eve’s bedside. “Ah, you poor dear.” She patted Eve’s hand. “I surely didn’t mean to upset you more. I just thought—”
A quick rap at the door cut her thought short.
“Aunt Clara. Eve.” The angel-man’s voice. “Dr. Callahan and Sheriff McCord are here to see Eve, if she’s up to it.”
Clara’s brows raised in a questioning look, and Eve nodded. Though the thought of a doctor poking at her cuts and bruises didn’t appeal, the sheriff might have information that could spark a memory.
“Come on in.” Clara pulled the quilt up under Eve’s chin. Her voice turned stern as John entered the room followed by two older men. “But the minute Eve gets the least bit tuckered, I’m sending you all hikin’.” She leveled a sharp look at the trio, and Eve appreciated the woman’s motherly protectiveness.
Did Eve have a mother somewhere? The thought pricked at her heart, bringing new tears to her eyes. She blinked them away.
John stepped to the bed, drawing Eve’s gaze like metal to a magnet. She couldn’t deny his attractiveness, and the quality went far beyond his handsome features.
“Eve.” His soft gaze on her face felt like a physical caress. “Do you feel up to having Doc Callahan check out your wounds?”
Eve nodded, prying her gaze from John in order to shift it to the older gentleman wearing a seersucker suit and clutching the handles of a black satchel. Gray. From his shock of coarse hair to his summer suit to his kind eyes, various shades of that color dominated the doctor’s looks. Oddly, his monochromatic appearance had a calming effect on Eve, and she relaxed when he pulled a chair up to her bedside.
“Hmm.” The doctor’s brows pinched as he examined the cut on her head. “I understand you don’t remember much about the accident.”
Eve winced when he gingerly touched the wound. “Nothing. I have no memory.”
“I’m sure it is only temporary, my dear.” He patted her hand, but his weak smile and unconvincing tone belied his prognosis. After treating and bandaging her several cuts, he checked for other injuries, including broken bones. Finding none, he pronounced her in otherwise good health and prescribed bed rest and chicken soup.
During the examination, Clara, John, and Sheriff McCord had talked quietly among themselves while casting intermittent glances toward Eve and the doctor.
John stepped toward the bed, his forehead creasing. “What about her memory, Doc? When do you think Eve’s memory will return?”
Dr. Callahan shrugged his seersucker-clad shoulders as he stuffed his stethoscope into his satchel and shut the bag with a snap. “Short-term amnesia is not an uncommon phenomenon after such a traumatic event. I expect Eve will remember things in bits and pieces as time goes by.”
Sheriff McCord, who stood with his arms crossed over his barrel chest, gave a soft snort. “Amnesia? Convenient, I’d say.” The skepticism in his gruff tone and steely glare suggested that he suspected Eve’s memory loss was a ruse.
The sheriff stepped to Eve’s bedside and trained his gaze on her like a weapon, one bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrow raised. “So… Eve.” He weighted the pronunciation of the name with a sarcastic emphasis. “Clara says your dress came from Buffalo, New York. Is that where you’re from?”
“I don’t know.” Eve’s insides quivered as the sheriff glared down his bulbous nose at her.
“Your accent sounds like New York.” He cocked his head, his mustached mouth pursed in an accusatory pucker.
“I—I might be from New York. I told you, I can’t remember.”
John put a hand on the sheriff’s shoulder. “Now Sid, you’ve got no call to badger her. She’s been through enough—”
“Ever heard of the Erie Savings Bank in Buffalo, Missy? Ever been there?” The sheriff leaned in, ignoring John’s objections.
Eve pushed down her rising indignation at the lawman’s inquisition. Did he have some knowledge that she had a link with that institution? If so, it could help in discovering her identity.
“I don’t know. I told you, I can’t remember. Please, Sheriff, find out who I am.” Eve hated the tears filling her eyes.
“Oh I will, Missy. And I’ll find out what you did with that ten thousand dollars you stole, too.”
Chapter Three
Clara gasped and covered her mouth with her hands.
Eve felt as if Sheriff McCord had physically punched her in the stomach. “What? What did I do?” She barely managed to whisper the question amid the fear rising up in her chest, threatening to close off her breathing. Had she done something terrible? What kind of person was she? Who was she?
John stepped in front of Sheriff McCord as if to make himself a barrier between the lawman and Eve. His stiffened posture turned protective, and Eve experienced a wave of gratitude for her guardian angel-man. “That’s enough, Sid.” Though an inch or two shorter than the sheriff, John rose to his full height, nearly erasing the difference. “What’s this all about? What are you accusing Eve of doing?”
Sheriff McCord shifted to peer over John’s shoulder at Eve. His brow lowered and his lips flatted in a grim line. “I got a telegraph from Buffalo that a woman involved in a crime there might be on the train that wrecked.” His eyes narrowed to accusatory slits. “The description fits this woman to a T.”
“That Big Four line originates in Buffalo. I’m sure there were a lot of people from that town on the train.” John’s stance and tone remained defensive, calming the new terror rising in Eve’s chest. “So what exactly was this person supposed to have done?”
The furrows in the sheriff’s brow deepened. “The telegraph bulletin I got from New York refers to the suspect as the Society Bandit. Has a long line of aliases, but her birth name is Annette Bouchard. Raised in high society, she was disowned by her family and turned to a life of crime. With a head for numbers, she gets bookkeeping jobs at banks then embezzles
them out of thousands of dollars. Before they realize what she’s done, she moves on. The Erie Savings Bank in Buffalo was her last job.”
John’s hands clenched at his sides, and a warning rippled beneath the surface of the controlled anger in his voice. “You have no proof that Eve is the Bouchard woman.”
Sheriff McCord’s chin jutted out. “I have no proof she’s not, either. And until I do, she’s my prime suspect. Besides, Weston, we all know you’re not the best judge of character, now don’t we?”
Clara hung her head and Dr. Callahan softly cleared his throat, looking as if he wished to be somewhere else.
Though curious about the sheriff’s odd comment to John, Eve’s concern over what crimes she might have committed swamped all other thoughts.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to take you into custody until I can get someone from Buffalo to come and positively identify you, ma’am.” A scant hint of apology touched Sheriff McCord’s voice as he attempted to step around John toward Eve’s bed.
John clapped a hand on the sheriff’s shoulder, stopping him. “I’m asking that you not to do that, Sid. Eve is injured.” He glanced at Eve. “Look at her. Doc said she needs rest and care. Besides, she’s innocent until proven guilty.” He raised his strong jaw, his gaze burrowing into the lawman’s eyes. “You know it could be a week or more before Buffalo gets anyone down here. Even then, they might not be able to identify her. You heard Mort. Her head injury could be worse than it appears. Are you willing to put an innocent woman’s health at risk?”
The sheriff shrugged off John’s hand. “What I’m not willing to do is let a suspect slip through my fingers.” He looked at Eve. “Get dressed, Missy. If Doc Callahan says you’re fit to get out of bed, you’re comin’ with me.” He shot the doctor a pointed look. “Well, Mort, is she fit to leave her bed?”
The Rails to Love Romance Collection Page 21