His Forgotten Fiancée

by Evelyn M. Hill

  She sneaked a glance at him out of the corner of her eye. He had tilted his head back to watch the sunset tint the white snow on Mount Hood to a warm apricot. The eastern sky beyond was darkening to a lovely royal blue. He seemed absorbed in admiring the scenery. Or pretending he was somewhere else. She wasn’t sure how to work up to her question, but she had to start somewhere. “How are you feeling?”

  He glanced at her briefly before returning to his appreciation of the sunset. “I am feeling quite well. The doctor seems to have made an accurate assessment of my injury being slight. I do not think you need to worry about my helping with the harvesting.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. I apologize for my pa. He really doesn’t drink any longer. I’m sure he wouldn’t have indulged if his visitor hadn’t insisted.”

  “Do you still think it was this Baron?”

  “Or Mr. Brown.” She considered. “On the whole, I’d say he’s worse than the Baron. At least the Baron comes at you straight on. Mr. Brown likes to sneak around and spring things on you when you least expect it.”

  She had Matthew’s attention now. He was looking at her intently. “Has this Mr. Brown been pestering you?”

  Now it was Liza’s turn to admire the sunset. The snow on the mountainside was fading from apricot into a cool lavender. “I s’pose you could call it that. He used to like to come by and visit. I thought he was coming by to see Pa, at the time. He would chat with Pa for hours and then he tried to act all friendly with me. He said he was just being social.”

  “Men often expect women to appreciate their attentions.”

  “He does, at any rate.”

  He was still looking at her, she could feel it. “If he pesters you again...well, maybe he’ll stop doing that if he sees that I’m staying here.”

  “Maybe. That’s a problem I’ll deal with when it comes, if it comes. I wanted to ask you about something else. I was wondering...there’s one thing I’d really like to know. Why did you leave me?”

  He sat unmoving in the half darkness, just watching her. “Why did I...?”

  “If you ever get your memory back, I’d take it kindly if you would answer that question for me.” She hugged her elbows to herself. Being left—again—didn’t get any easier. There was a hole in her, an aching absence that had once been filled with someone she loved and who loved her back.

  He bent his head, looking down at his empty hands as though he expected them to hold answers. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I do not understand. Are you telling me that your fiancé left without a word of explanation?”

  “You left a note.” She shifted uncomfortably. The bench could be improved with a cushion or two; it seemed harder than rock. “But all the note said was that you were heading off to find gold in California. And that you’d come looking for me in Oregon City.”

  Quietly, he said, “And now you want me to explain why I left? And didn’t come back? Those are fair questions, but they’re not for me to answer. I thought we had agreed that I am not that man. Not at the moment.”

  “It’s just that—you left without saying goodbye. I—I keep wondering why. You could have come to see me before you left. If you’ve promised to marry someone, that seems like the least kindness you could do.”

  The ache inside her deepened. She had never spoken about this to anyone. It was easier to talk about it in the semidarkness when she could not see his face, note his expression. Somehow, sitting with him in the near dark, with the smell of the wood smoke from the chimney and the feel of tired muscles after a long day brought back the sensations that she associated with their days on the trail and the easy, comfortable familiarity between them. Back then, there wasn’t anything they couldn’t talk about.

  “I am sorry that I cannot help you.” His deep voice had gentled to a regretful murmur. “Perhaps if I can do something to trigger my memory’s return. I recognized the chess set, or half recognized it. It looks familiar, but I cannot recall anything specific in regard to it. I do not recall playing chess, or teaching anyone else to play it, either.”

  “I can tell you things about yourself, if that would help.” She doubted that would cause his memory to suddenly reappear, but what could it hurt? It would be something, at least. This ache inside her was just getting larger the more time she spent in the company of this stranger who had once said he loved her. So she started to tell him about himself, growing up in Illinois, getting the chance to study law at some fancy college in Boston before coming back to his hometown to settle down. There were some areas of his life that he hadn’t said much about. He’d taken a trip to Europe but hadn’t gone into much detail about what he’d seen there. He rarely spoke of his father, who had died while Matthew was quite young. She had gotten the impression of a stern older man who discouraged affection.

  As she spoke, the snow up on the peak of Mount Hood faded from pale lavender to gray. Stars started to come out overhead. The claim lay cradled by hills, so she couldn’t see the wide sweep of stars that she had seen on the prairie at night, but it was a comfort to still recognize the same familiar constellations they had looked up at together in the evenings on the trail.

  Matthew listened intently, making few comments. It was odd to be the one doing all the talking. She had loved to sit by the campfire on the trail and listen to him rolling out tales of life back east, or of stories he had read. It didn’t matter what he said—she had loved the sound of his deep, melodious voice.

  Of course, in those days, she would have been sitting right next to him, feeling the warmth of his arm resting beside her, feeling safe and loved.

  Loneliness speared through her, so sharp the pain was almost physical. The space between them was a few inches and an immeasurable gulf at the same time. She was alone in a relationship meant for two. It wasn’t enough for him to be there physically if what they had between them was no longer there. She had to keep reminding herself that things were different now. Sitting here next to him hadn’t been such a good idea. It would be so easy to give in to the illusion that he still loved her—if indeed he ever had.

  She needed to focus on what she had brought him out here for. Stopping in the middle of a description of his childhood in Illinois, she said abruptly, “Let me ask the question another way. If you were to leave a woman, what would strike you as a good reason?”

  She could hear the scuff of his boots on the ground as he shifted around to look toward her. She had no idea what he could see. He was a dim figure, his features lost in shadow.

  “I cannot think of any good reason to leave a woman. Not if I loved her,” he said.

  Well, that was clear enough. She got to her feet. She was not going to cry in front of him—she would not. She turned away. “It’s late, and we need to get an early start tomorrow. I should get you a blanket.”

  * * *

  Matthew rose from the bench slowly, startled by Liza’s abrupt departure. He had been taken off guard by her question and given an honest answer. Clearly, that had been a bad idea. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. But she had to understand that whatever had gone on between her and her fiancé, it was nothing to do with him. His reasoning seemed logical. All the same, he had to fight down a feeling of guilt.

  When he went back inside the cabin, Liza was climbing down from the loft with an enormous quilt slung over her back. She thrust it at him, avoiding his eyes. “Here. You’ll want this. It’s a thick, heavy quilt. I’ve spread out a blanket and pillow by the fire, but you might get cold.”

  He took the quilt. He had never stopped to look at quilts before, never considered them one way or another, but this one had a beautiful design on it, dark greens and blues and reds in an intricate pattern of interlocking geometric shapes. It was made of a tightly woven fabric that would keep out drafts.

  He wanted to thank her, but she took a step back and would not meet his eyes. “Well, I’ll say good-night then.”

 
His blanket was lying close enough to the fire that it felt comfortably warm as he lay down. The quilt was a snug barrier against the evening chill. He was well fed and tired enough so that sleep should have come easily. But as he lay there staring up at the ceiling, all he could think about was the look on Liza’s face as she turned away from him.

  He must have hurt her worse than he thought. He would have to find a way to make it up to her later. She was a good woman, even if she kept expecting things from him that he could not give her. Or perhaps she was having second thoughts about having him stay. He wasn’t going to be here very long, after all. Then she and her father could get back to living their lives any way they liked. Without him. That thought was oddly disturbing, but before he could analyze why, he fell asleep.

  A dark-haired woman, half-hidden in shadows of a side alley. She stretched out her hand, calling for his help. He went toward her. You were supposed to help women in distress. Something about her behavior seemed odd, forced. Then he heard footsteps behind him and harsh voices.

  Pain. Someone hit him. The woman turned away. Fighting back, swinging blindly. More than one man was attacking him. He was surrounded. Trapped. A fist connected with the side of his head, and he stumbled into the wall of the alley. He bit his lip. He tasted blood in his mouth. More blood dripped into his eyes, blinding him. He struck out wildly and felt his fists connect with flesh. A grunt of pain from someone else. He was falling. With a cold shock, black water closed over his head. He could not tell which way was up. He panicked, flailing his arms and legs around in all directions.

  He woke with the old, familiar feeling of hostile eyes watching him. With his eyes still closed, he slipped his hand under the pillow for the knife. But there was no knife there. Then he remembered. He had been attacked. Everything was gone, including his memories. But someone was there, standing to the side of the quilt. He could hear the heavy, labored breathing. He lifted his eyelashes a fraction. A big figure, standing there watching him. Matthew tensed his muscles, prepared to move quickly.

  “Ah, looks like you are starting to wake up.” A man’s deep, gravelly voice. “Or are you going to lie there pretending you’re still asleep?”

  Chapter Five

  “Pa? What are you doing?” Liza’s voice, curious and unafraid.

  Matthew opened his eyes slowly. A thickset man with sparse white hair was looming over him, but he wasn’t paying attention to Matthew. His head was turned away. Matthew followed the direction of his gaze and saw Liza descending the last step of the ladder. He sat up quickly, ambushed again but a lot less able to defend himself. She had evidently been in the middle of getting dressed: she wore a pink calico dress, and her light hair cascaded down her shoulders, flowing down over her body like a field of newly ripened grain rippling in a breeze.

  The sight was mesmerizing; he had to make an effort to look away. He had better find something else to focus on, and quickly. Liza’s father was glaring at him again. Then for some reason the man shifted his gaze down to the quilt and then back to Matthew. This time the look in those blue eyes was positively murderous.

  Seemingly unmindful that her hair was flowing loose around her, Liza wrapped a shawl around herself, looking from one man to another. “I guess maybe I should introduce you. Pa, this is Matthew Dean. You remember that I mentioned him? We...we met on the trail. Now he’s come over to help us with the harvest.” In a few brief words, she described Matthew’s attack and his resultant loss of memory. “The doctor thinks it’s only temporary, though. He’ll stay on the claim and get his memory back while helping get in the harvest.”

  Mr. Fitzpatrick did not look appeased. If anything, his bad mood had intensified. He glowered like a grizzly disturbed in its den.

  Matthew got to his feet. None of the usual formulas used in this sort of situation seemed to fit. “Pleased to meet you” was not really appropriate, considering he had—technically—met the man the day before. Besides, he wasn’t sure he was pleased to meet him. He didn’t know what Liza had told her father about him, but it must have been something fairly unpleasant, judging by the way his mouth had tightened into a thin line.

  People kept blaming him for actions he could not remember taking, promises made by another man inhabiting the same body. He settled on acknowledging her father with a nod. Didn’t seem to help.

  Liza looked from one to the other. She said, brightly, “Pa, why don’t you get dressed while I get breakfast ready?”

  Mr. Fitzpatrick did not glare at Liza, Matthew noted. He grabbed a couple of thick branches that were leaning against the table, and Matthew realized that they were a pair of crudely carved crutches. Hunching over them made Liza’s father seem smaller, but no less menacing. He thumped the crutches down as he made his way to the back room, grunting a little from the effort.

  Once the door had slammed behind him, Liza looked at Matthew. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning.” He looked at her and then quickly looked away. Didn’t the woman realize that she was alone, her hair down, with a man she wasn’t married to?

  She seemed perfectly at ease, deftly braiding her hair into a plait and securing it with a strip of leather. He wasn’t sure if this were excessive trust or a mere lack of understanding of men. Perhaps a mixture of both. “I’ll go milk the cows, get us some milk for breakfast. There are always eggs, and I can whip up some biscuits.”

  He nodded. “Right. What do you want me to do?”

  “If you could go fetch water? The bucket’s over there. Pa’s too proud to admit it, but it’s not easy for him to get around, and managing the bucket and the crutches both is a hardship.”

  “Of course.” And maybe he could splash a little cold water on himself, as well. Erase from his memory the picture of her with her hair falling loose around her. The last thing he needed was a distraction like that, especially under the critical eye of her pa. Protective of his child, and not inclined to welcome any stranger. Probably even if Matthew had ridden up on a white horse after slaying a dragon, Mr. Fitzpatrick would have been suspicious and prickly. A man who had to be told his own name was not going to inspire confidence.

  When he opened the door, the little kitten slipped between his legs and set out to explore, but Matthew stopped dead in his tracks.

  The cabin faced east, and so he was confronted with the full impact of the immense, snow-covered Mount Hood. In last night’s dusk, he hadn’t noticed how the massive volcano dominated the eastern skyline. Below lay ridge upon ridge of dense forests, nature unmarred by any sign of humanity.

  This was the rustic wilderness he’d been subconsciously expecting. He could have been twenty miles from civilization or two hundred. Not even the smoke from a neighbor’s chimney to remind him of the world outside. Everything he depended on for his daily survival was right here, in this little valley with these two people.

  No wonder Liza had fired up and lectured him about relying on your neighbors. This was not a territory where you could survive without help.

  To the north, farther off, a thin wisp of smoke around the summit marred the near-perfect symmetry of Mount Saint Helens. The thought of living in a valley with volcanoes on the horizon was beautiful and intimidating and strange, all at once. That seemed more to belong to Naples, and the teeming, overpopulated chaos around Mount Vesuvius.

  He had no idea how he knew that.

  Lord, give me patience. This situation could become annoying very easily, and patience was not his strongest quality. That thought reminded him of helping pick up the chess set with Liza the night before. He smiled at the memory.

  “Amusing sight, is it?” Mr. Fitzpatrick’s voice came from behind him in the cabin. Matthew did not flinch. He remained looking out as the older man stumped up behind him.

  “Sir?” He kept his voice respectful, not subservient, but polite. He turned to meet the older man’s gaze calmly. He did not want Mr. Fitzpatrick to thro
w him off the claim. Looking at this place in the daylight, he could see how much the odds were stacked against Liza. She was going to need his help, no matter how often this man felt the need to glare at him. He waited.

  “Not much, is it, boy? And this is a settled cabin. People come up here their first year, they just throw up a lean-to while they get dug in. I spent two years improving this claim before I sent for Liza. Another year and it’ll be proved up and I’ll own the title free and clear. It’s my legacy for Liza.” He pinned Matthew with a steely-eyed look. “I’ll not see it wasted.”

  “I promise not to interfere with your and your daughter’s plans for this claim. I am only here to pay off the debt I owe your daughter. Then I’ll leave.”

  Apparently that hadn’t been the right thing to say. Those angry blue eyes remained fixed on him. “Did you like the quilt you slept with last night? She made that last winter. Going to be the quilt on her wedding bed. Only the bridegroom never showed up.”

  It wasn’t my fault. He was going to end up having that engraved on his tombstone at this rate. “I am sorry for your daughter’s suffering. But I take no responsibility for promises that I have no recollection of making.”

  “Do you know what kind of a laughingstock you made her? Everyone thinking she’d been abandoned, and her stubbornly clinging to the notion that you were going to keep your word. Now for some reason she thinks it’s a good idea to bring you up here. She has faith in you, boy. Make sure you justify it.”

  Matthew waited until Mr. Fitzpatrick had finished, subtly acknowledging that this was his home ground. “I’ll do my best to get the harvest in the barn before the rains come.” Not that I have any idea of what I am going to do afterward, if my memories haven’t returned by that point. “That’s the only promise I’m concerned with at this point. I am going to fetch the water. She’ll be back soon.” He escaped, with the strong feeling that he had only gotten through round one of the match. More was coming, he was certain.