by MJ Fredrick
“I’m—” She spread one hand over her chest, her other hand tight on the side rail. “I’m Katherine Barclay. I’m his wife.”
The man’s forehead smoothed. He took another step forward, offering his hand. “So pleased to meet you, ma’am. I’m Aaron. You come on in, now. You’ll be a sight for sore eyes.”
Trace waited for more of an explanation, but Kit didn’t. She placed her hand in the stranger’s and allowed him to assist her down from the wagon. Trace jumped down and walked to the horse’s head.
Kit looked over her shoulder at him. “Will you wait out here?”
Of course. She didn’t want to reunite with her husband with her lover looking on. He gripped the bridle and nodded. “I’ll be here.” He hoped to hell his voice sounded supportive, that the anger and betrayal he felt didn’t make their presence known. She didn’t need that now, when her emotions were confused enough.
***
Kit took a deep breath at the shine of pain in Trace’s eyes, and then she followed Aaron into the cabin.
John, her beloved John, lay on a cot against the wall in the dim room, covered in linen, a deerskin draped over his lower body. His head was wrapped in cotton batting and when he looked at her, alerted by her cry—part alarm and part joy—his eyes didn’t quite focus.
Those familiar blue eyes didn’t recognize her.
She choked out his name and dropped to the cot beside him. He shifted toward the wall, away from her, with a grunt of pain.
“John?” She reached out with a shaking hand to stroke the edge of the batting. “It’s me, Kit.”
He flinched from her touch and his questioning gaze flicked to Aaron.
“What’s wrong with him?” Kit asked, her voice high as she fisted her hand in her lap. “He doesn’t know me?”
“Mrs. Barclay, he was shot in the head.”
“Shot in the—?” She dropped back onto her heels, muscles lax in shock. “How is he alive?”
Aaron smiled down at her grimly. “I would think his wife would know better than most. Never met a harder headed man.”
“You were with him when he was hurt?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And the head injury? Is that the extent of it?”
“No, ma’am, he was also shot in the lower leg. Shattered the bone. They had to take it below the knee.”
She sucked in a hard breath, her hand hovering over the deerskin above his leg. Still she couldn’t breathe. He’d lost his leg? No wonder he hadn’t come for her. “His leg? And his head? So he doesn’t know me.”
Aaron frowned. “No, ma’am. He doesn’t remember much.”
“What do you mean, much?”
“Well, ma’am, he didn’t know his name when he came to. He didn’t know where he was, or how he got hurt.”
“He doesn’t remember me.” Or their son. Defeat weighted her shoulders. She had wanted to mourn their son with the man who had given her the child, who had shared that life with her. Now even that was taken from her. “How did you know to bring him here?”
“He had the deed with him when he was injured.”
“And you brought him out here on your own?”
“I was the only one left.”
The words made her dizzy. The only survivor, and he’d cared for her husband.
“I’m sorry. I—” She scrambled to her feet and bolted for the door, only just reaching the bare ground outside before her stomach heaved.
“Kit.”
Trace was at her side, sweeping her hair back from her face. She could sense the questions he had, but she couldn’t answer them, not yet.
“Could I get some water?” She needed some distance from him—because she wanted to turn into his chest and beg him to take her home, to take her back to a time when she didn’t know her husband was alive, when she was thinking of her future. A different future, not one in which she had to care for her crippled husband, a man who didn’t remember her.
Trace stroked his thumb over her cheek. She sensed him watching her, but she didn’t trust herself to meet his gaze. He pushed to his feet and she heard him walk away. He returned with the canteen and a cup filled with cool water. Rising, she discovered her legs were shaking. Still not looking at him, she accepted the drink. She had to start detaching herself from him. She needed to walk away from him and take her place at her husband’s side.
Another deep breath didn’t do enough to battle back her tears. How could something so joyous—finding her husband alive—cause so much pain?
“I need to…Trace, I need to—”
“You need to stay.” His voice was rough.
She made the mistake of looking at him. Pain etched lines in his face and tears shone in his eyes. Her throat constricted and she had to drop her gaze. She needed to get away, needed to send him away, but her heart was breaking. This man knew her, understood her, loved her. But they hadn’t promised each other anything. She’d given him her body but they’d never talked about a future. They’d never spoken of marriage. Not enough time had passed since Angelina’s death. He wasn’t ready to move forward, and thank the Lord for that. Because Kit had just been yanked back into the past.
She moved to the other side of the door. “Would you—could you go get Agnes and Mary and bring them here?”
He eased back onto his heels and folded his hands in front of him. “You want me to go tell Agnes her son is alive?”
Kit folded her arms. Of course he was right. She needed to do it. But she couldn’t bear the thought of riding in the wagon with him back to the colony. And she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her husband, not so soon after she’d found him.
She looked through the door, to her husband lying helpless on the bed.
“You’re right. I just—can you give me a few more minutes before we go back? I need—just a little more time.”
He nodded. “I’ll wait.”
Her nose and eyes burning with tears, she pivoted and went back into the cabin.
***
If Trace thought the ride out had been painful, the ride back to town was miserable. Kit didn’t talk, only sniffled now and again. She hadn’t introduced him to John, but he thought he understood. He’d glimpsed the man through the doorway, bedridden and in bad shape. Kit had cradled the man’s hand between hers until he fell asleep. Only then had she been willing to leave.
“He doesn’t know me,” she said at last, her voice barely audible above the rattle of the wagon wheels. “He looks at me and doesn’t know who I am. We were married six years. He doesn’t remember our son.”
“I’m sorry.” He had to reach past his pain to her own, but he had no idea how to comfort her, not without touching her, and she was once again another man’s wife.
“I could walk away.” She turned to him, her tone sharp. “I could walk away and he wouldn’t know.”
He didn’t know how to respond. What would she walk to? Him? Would he want that, knowing she had made that choice? Could she live with that? He knew her better than to think she could. “You would know.”
She turned away again. “I would know.”
***
“John’s alive?”
Agnes dropped heavily onto a chair at Almanzo’s table, her shoulders slumped, her face slack, looking older than Kit ever remembered seeing her. When was the last time she’d truly looked at John’s mother and seen the toll the events of this winter had taken on her? Kit crouched beside her mother-in-law and took the older woman’s hands in her own.
“He’s not well.” She had to prepare his family. She wished she had been more prepared. Her emotions might not be in such a jumble now. “He didn’t recognize me. Aaron, the man who’s been caring for him, says he doesn’t know him from day to day. He’s confined to the bed, and one of his legs—” She’d gotten through all of that without choking up, but now her throat squeezed. “They took it below the knee.”
Behind Kit, Mary gave a cry of distress.
“But he’s alive.” Kit f
orced strength into her voice, as if it would buoy the other two. “He’s alive, and we had given up hope that could be. We’ll have much to do—the living conditions are not what we had at the fort. But we’ll have supplies and we’ll have each other.”
Tears blurred her eyes. Once again she’d be the strong one. She wouldn’t have Trace to turn to, to lean on, to discuss matters with. He’d even left her to tell the family on her own. What she wouldn’t give for his support right now. But she could hardly ask for it as she prepared to rejoin her husband.
She had to seize the joy of finding her husband alive, no matter how hard it was going to be to care for him. No matter how hard it was going to be to walk away from Trace.
“So.” She pushed to her feet. “Let’s get our things packed and get out there, shall we? Almanzo will take us, if we can leave within the hour.”
“Not Trace?” Mary asked, tears making her voice quaver.
Kit didn’t look at her sister-in-law. “It’s too much to ask him to go back.” Too much to ask her to say goodbye at the threshold of her husband’s home.
Almanzo stepped in the back door, his hat in his hands. “Trace told me the good news,” he said, his tone solemn. “He also told me your husband doesn’t have much in the way of amenities. I’ll be happy to give you what I can to make you ladies comfortable.” His attention was on Mary. “What can I do?”
“I’ll make a list, if you don’t mind, and you can collect some supplies from the mercantile for us.” Kit was unwilling to be beholden to him for anything more. “I don’t know when we’ll be able to get back into town. I didn’t see a conveyance.” She looked past him to see Trace standing behind him. Her heart gave a painful thump against her ribs. “Did you see one?” she asked him, needing to stay businesslike, no matter how it hurt.
Trace shook his head, his lips in a thin line. “I’ll take the list.”
She nodded and turned her attention to the paper and pencil Graciela brought her.
The next half hour was a flurry of preparation. In addition to driving them, Almanzo loaded two beds on the wagon, as well as some of Graciela’s homemade soaps and cleansers, some linens and dishes and cookware. Kit hated that her embarrassment over accepting so much turned to resentment toward John. She should have had these things, as a married lady. She should have had a house and household items instead of depending on the generosity of a man she’d only known a week. She reassured herself by remembering that Almanzo was considering courting Mary, and was likely being extra-generous for that reason.
She slipped into the bedroom to pack her own meager belongings, including the beautiful dress she’d worn only this morning and would likely not have a chance to wear again. She’d allowed herself to imagine it might become her wedding dress. Sorrow swelled in her chest, but even if she had wanted to, she couldn’t cry. She was too tense, her mind tumbling from one thought to another. Her husband was alive. She was in love with another man. Her husband was an invalid, and once again they’d be cut off from civilization. Until arriving at the colony, she hadn’t realized how much she missed people.
But the thought that kept rolling through her mind, tormenting her, was that she could never see Trace again. She couldn’t bear to see him and remember how they were together, how he knew her, how he might love her. All of that had to remain locked away in her memory.
Movement outside the window caught her attention and she edged over to see Trace loading boxes into the back of the wagon, his face grim. Her heart clenched. Had he become as attached to her as she was to him? Would he remain in San Felipe now that she was no longer here to anchor him, or move on?
She folded the chemise he’d bought from Almanzo into her satchel. He was alone by the wagons. She needed to say goodbye to him privately. He deserved it. She deserved it.
She slipped out of the bedroom to the porch, avoiding Agnes and Mary, who she’d heard working in the kitchen. Perhaps Graciela would send them with dinner. That would be nice, since Kit would have to start scraping meals together tomorrow.
Trace hefted another box into the back of the wagon. He dusted his hands as she approached.
“You got more than what was on my list.” She forced cheeriness into her tone as she looked into the back of the wagon. Pots and other household paraphernalia were in the boxes, as well as sacks of sugar, flour, salt pork and other staples.
“You won’t have much out there.” He kept his attention on the boxes. “I didn’t get oats, though. Figured you’d had enough of those.”
“I got very good at making them, though.” She placed her hand on his arm, needing him to look at her. “Trace.”
He drew away and she felt the loss like a punch to the stomach.
“I’m trying to say goodbye.”
The muscle in his jaw twitched. “You know I wish you well.”
“I want to leave with more than that.”
He swung on her then. “What do you want, Kit? A last kiss as I send you to your husband?”
She stepped back. “You can’t be angry with me about this.”
“At you? No. Angry?” He shook his head. “My own fault.” He gripped the back of the wagon. “I wish you every happiness, Kit. Know that I do.”
He had already moved away from her, already closed her out of his heart. Still, she had to know. “What will you do?”
He blew a breath through his nose. “Go.”
Though she knew she couldn’t see him again, the thought that she would never, ever lay eyes on him again, would never encounter him at the mercantile or at church, threatened to rip her heart out. “Back home?”
“Maybe. Maybe on to San Antonio.”
“Trace.”
He turned back to her, his eyes hooded. “Everything I want to say to you, I can’t, all right? You’re another man’s wife now. Another man’s…” He swallowed, then shook his head and shoved away from the wagon. “I think you’re all set here.”
“Trace. Please.” She wanted his arms around her one last time, wanted to breathe the scent of him, to take that memory with her back into her old life.
But he wouldn’t look at her again. Instead, he turned and walked away.
She drew in a hard breath and watched him until he disappeared into the barn.
Chapter Thirteen
Kit carried the chamber pot from the cabin. Exhaustion shook the muscles in her arms, and though she’d emptied her stomach moments before, her insides still roiled.
There was no denying it any longer.
She was pregnant with Trace’s child.
She emptied the pot in the latrine Aaron had dug, then set it down and sank to the ground beside it, lowering her head to her raised knees.
They’d been here, at this place she planned to make a home with her husband, for three weeks. During that time, John hadn’t recognized her from one day to the next. She’d cleaned him, fed him, and helped him move around the cabin. He was so thin, she could feel his bones as she wrapped her arm around him, as he leaned on her, not even attempting to support his own weight.
She’d helped Aaron work on the cabin, sealing it as well as she could against the rains that had started. She hadn’t been this tired since walking to San Felipe, but at least then she’d felt hope.
Now, despite finding her husband, despite finally having the home she always wanted, she was miserable. John was no longer the man she had loved. He didn’t know her, didn’t know his own mother or sister. The man she’d fallen in love with, the man whose child she carried, had returned to New Orleans, according to Almanzo, who’d been out once a week to visit.
She had to tell Agnes about her pregnancy, and she didn’t know how. She didn’t know how her mother-in-law would react.
Agnes had been amazing the last few weeks, though, working tirelessly and without complaint as she cared for her son. She was so grateful to have him alive. Even his occasional seizures didn’t frighten her. Instead, Agnes tended her son with grim-faced determination.
Foo
tsteps sounded on the path behind her and for a moment, hope soared as her heart imagined Trace coming for her. But of course he wouldn’t. She was another man’s wife.
She looked up to see Agnes approaching, her brow furrowed. Kit rose to her knees, leaning on the edge of the chamber pot.
“Is John all right?”
“Another seizure,” Agnes said wearily. “He’s resting now. Mary is watching over him.”
Mary avoided her brother as much as she could, even taking over kitchen duties so she wouldn’t be asked to care for him. His missing leg bothered her the most. She wouldn’t even look at him when he was out of bed, struggling from one place to the next.
To Kit’s relief, Mary had become a decent cook in her avoidance, a skill she showed off when Almanzo visited.
“I should get back,” Kit murmured.
“Katherine, you’re ill.”
Kit drew a deep breath. Ready or not, she was going to have this conversation. She shook her head. “Not ill.”
Agnes took a deep breath of her own. “Expecting, then.”
Kit couldn’t meet the older woman’s eyes, not wanting to see Agnes’s disappointment in her. She studied the dusty ground in front of her, distraught at upsetting the woman with the news but relieved to have it in the open. “I haven’t felt like this since I carried Daniel.” She lifted her head and braced herself for her mother-in-law’s anger.
“I’ve suspected.” The other woman’s tone was more sad than angry. “I’m surprised you didn’t before now.”
Kit didn’t know how to tell Agnes that she’d thought about marrying Trace, creating a family with him, imagined his reaction to the news that she was carrying his child. How could she tell her husband’s mother these things?
“No one needs to know. John is my husband. The child will have a name.”
“When he gets better—”
“He’s not going to get better!” As soon as she said the words, she regretted them, and the pain they caused Agnes. The woman refused to see the truth, and none of Kit’s arguments would change that. She softened her tone. “He’s been in the same condition for months, Aaron said.”