by Lori Austin
Difficult delivery. A sea of blood. Panic. Cries. Screams.
“Similar situation.” Ethan shuddered. “Different results.”
Alive not dead. So why had he seen that child and remembered his own?
He traced the gravestone again. “Head trauma can cause memory loss.” He hadn’t needed to read a dozen books to know that. He’d had to only look at Mikey.
Ethan lifted the bottle to his lips—a single swallow and it was empty. Hell, he’d been in such a hurry to leave, he’d grabbed one of the bottles he’d taken to the Tarkentons’. He lifted the second, saw that it was only half full, too, shrugged, drank. He wasn’t going to be here long. He’d be back in his surgery before he needed more.
All the texts advised keeping the patient calm because upsetting him or her could make the situation worse. But had any of those patients gotten better? Ethan thought not or the books would have mentioned it.
Considering what had happened to him—head injury, memory loss, repetition of similar trauma to trauma he’d endured before, followed by the return of his memories—Ethan had a new hypothesis.
If trauma could cause memory loss, perhaps trauma could bring those memories back.
“What if it does?” He sat up. His horse lifted its head, snuffled, then returned to munching on grass. “Does that mean I should set a can on my brother’s head and have Fedya shoot it off?”
Was Ethan willing to risk his brother’s life on a theory? What if, instead of making him better, the experiment made Mikey worse? Or what if, just like last time, Fedya missed? His brother would not survive two bullets to the head.
So Mikey thought his name was Mikhail Romanov. So he believed Fedya was his brother, Alexi, and that the two of them had many adventures. So what?
Ethan had a sneaking suspicion that Fedya/Alexi was involved in some shady undertakings and that he’d drawn Mikey into them, too. Why else would Fedya have shown up with a woman who’d been shot?
Then there was the matter of the dead sheriff. About both situations, as well as what they’d been doing since the war, Fedya had remained tight-lipped.
Mikey had followed Fedya’s orders like a hired henchman. He wouldn’t even look at Ethan, let alone talk to him. The three of them had behaved as if they were on the run from something or someone and as if they had plenty to hide.
But was Ethan any better? He’d been a spy, and he’d used his brother to take information he’d stolen from the sick and the dying to what most people in the area would label the enemy. Mikey had been thrown into prison. Ethan had blamed Annabeth for what had happened, but she was right. She’d only set the trap.
Ethan was the one who’d jumped into it.
• • •
The door opened and then closed downstairs. As no voices followed, Annabeth concluded that Ethan had left rather than that someone had arrived. She leaned over, hand outstretched to snatch her saddlebags; then she straightened and kicked them instead. Dust puffed upward.
“Idiot,” she muttered.
Now that she’d revealed to everyone in town that she wasn’t dead, Ethan would have a helluva time saying she was. Before she left forever, she had to visit the lawyer—what had been his name?—and request a divorce. Then Ethan could have the life he’d always wanted. With Cora not Annabeth, but what choice did she have? Even if Cora hadn’t carried Ethan’s child, Annabeth doubted he would want Annabeth back once he knew the truth of the past five years. If she stayed, she would have to tell him everything, and she wasn’t sure she could bear to watch Ethan’s face reflect disappointment and disgust.
Unfortunately, the sun wasn’t yet up, and she doubted the lawyer would be available until it was.
She listened to the house creak as the horizon lightened to gray and then pink. She must have dozed, because the next time she looked, the sky blazed gold and people bustled about on the streets. She slung her saddlebags over her shoulder and left.
Two doors beyond Lewis’s Sewing and Sundry, a sign proclaimed: LOYER.
“Someone really needs to paint new signs.”
Annabeth hoped to slip past Cora’s place without being seen. Hell, she hoped to slip out of town without having to talk to anyone besides the “loyer.” Of course, what she hoped rarely happened. She was three steps from success when a door opened behind her.
“Missus—” An exasperated huff followed. Annabeth reached for the doorknob, hoping she might still escape. “Don’t you dare!”
Annabeth turned. Cora Lewis had two bright spots of color high on her cheeks, which caused her blue eyes to shine bluer. The effect made her appear both ethereal and insane.
“You stole that dress!” she shouted.
Annabeth glanced down at Ethan’s trousers and shirt, then at the crazy woman.
“You know what I mean.”
She did, and she hadn’t stolen it. Of course, she also hadn’t paid for it; nor could she return it in its current condition.
The stares of the townsfolk bored into Annabeth’s back; her own cheeks heated. “Could we step into your shop?”
She preferred not to have a private conversation involving money—and name-calling, no doubt—in front of everyone.
Cora lifted her pretty, pointed chin. “No.”
Annabeth’s hands clenched, and she moved closer, crowding the woman back. “I have the money; I’ll give it to you inside.”
“And if I refuse?” The woman raised her voice so everyone could hear. “Will you hit me again?”
“When did I hit you?”
“You slapped me in the face.”
Understanding dawned. “You were hysterical.”
Cora sniffed. “So you say.” Then she spun and stalked into the shop.
Annabeth risked a glance at their audience. A few discovered fascinating particles of dust just above their heads. The rest stared at Annabeth with accusing, disappointed expressions. She saw how the situation appeared. The tiny, petite, and lovely seamstress threatened and abused by the looming, large, unlovely woman who’d deserted their beloved doctor.
As there was nothing she could say to disabuse that opinion—it was largely the truth—Annabeth followed Cora inside. She placed the greenbacks on the counter. “That should be more than enough.”
“You’re unfamiliar with what dresses cost these days.” Cora let her gaze wander over Annabeth from hat to boot, and her lip curled. “Obviously.”
“You didn’t adjust it as promised,” Annabeth said. She didn’t bother to add that the dress was ready for the ragbag after a single wearing. Though she’d like to blame the woman for everything, Annabeth’s wearing it to a birthing had not been the fault of Cora Lewis.
“You think I’d work for you?”
Annabeth slapped a few more dollars onto the counter and stepped toward the door. She paused with her hand on the knob. “Tell Ethan . . .” Her throat closed, and she had to swallow several times before she could speak again. “Tell him I’m filing for divorce. He should see the lawyer.”
“He remembers?”
“Yes.” Annabeth waited for a cry of joy; when it didn’t come, she glanced over her shoulder to discover Cora’s face wreathed in a frown.
“Everything?” she asked.
“I assume so.”
“How?”
Annabeth wasn’t going to explain. She wasn’t sure she could explain. All she knew was that Ethan was himself again, or close enough, which meant she had to leave.
She’d warned him of danger; he’d denied there was any. He believed the shot that had hit him had been meant for her. So did the marshal. As there’d been no further incidents, despite plenty of opportunity, she was inclined to agree. Maybe the bullet through the window had even been an accident. Someone’s gun had misfired and the culprit did not want to admit it. She certainly wouldn’t.
Annabeth was beginning to wonder if Fedya’s warning had merely been a means to an end. He thought she should return to her husband. Which didn’t sound like the man she knew, but li
ttle she’d heard of Fedya since coming back to Freedom did.
Perhaps, if it hadn’t been for Cora and her child—and Lassiter Morant—Annabeth might have stayed and tried to make their marriage work. As it was, she needed to go.
Pryce Mortimer sat behind a wooden table in the center of his office. Hunched over and scribbling madly, he was nearly obscured by the stacks of books and papers all around him. He didn’t glance up when Annabeth stepped inside. After several silent moments broken only by the sound of his pen on paper, Annabeth cleared her throat.
Mortimer lifted his dark head; Annabeth blinked, but she did not flinch or look away from the man’s ravaged face. She’d seen enough smallpox victims to recognize the cause of the damage. During the war, the army had tried to vaccinate the soldiers; however, the vaccines were not always effective. Most regular folks had no idea what a vaccine was, not to mention the Indian populations, which had been decimated by the disease. That Mortimer had survived the horrible, murderous illness revealed a lot about the man without him ever saying a word.
“I would like to engage your services.” Annabeth took the chair on the other side of the table without being asked.
“In what capacity?” Annabeth blinked again. Pryce Mortimer had the deepest, most commanding and beautiful voice she had ever heard.
“I need a divorce.”
Mortimer frowned, though the expression was merely a downward twitch of his lips. His face had been damaged too deeply to move much at all. “Divorce,” he repeated. “I don’t think—”
“I do.”
“You must have a reason, Missus . . . ?”
“And here I thought I was the main topic of conversation in Freedom these days.”
The expression in his dark eyes turned wry. “I don’t leave this building. I talk to no one unless they first talk to me. You can see why.”
“No, I can’t.”
“You don’t appear blind.”
“And you don’t appear stupid.”
Mortimer stared at her for a few seconds, and then he laughed. His laugh was as beautiful as his voice. “Why don’t you tell me who you are, who you want to divorce, and why.”
“I’m Annabeth Phe—” She paused. “Annabeth Walsh.”
“The doctor’s wife. Everyone thought you were dead.”
“Thinking doesn’t make it so.” Neither did hoping.
Too bad for Cora Lewis.
“No,” he agreed, and something in his voice made Annabeth believe he had firsthand experience with the situation. Poor man.
“Why do I need a reason?” she asked. Annabeth knew little about divorce except that she’d be going to hell for it. But since she’d already been there, what was one more trip?
“Although divorces are more easily granted in the West, fault is required. In layman’s terms . . .” He spread his equally damaged hands. “A reason.”
“What kind?”
“Why don’t you tell me yours, and I’ll decide if it’s good enough?”
“How about you list what’s acceptable, and I’ll pick one?”
Everyone would know soon enough about Cora and Ethan’s child. Annabeth planned to be far away before that news circulated. However, as she was doing this to ensure Ethan’s future happiness, she didn’t intend to spread reputation-ruining rumors along the way.
Mortimer studied her for several seconds. Annabeth studied him right back. Eventually, he gave in. “Adultery, bigamy, cruelty, desertion, habitual drunkenness, impotency, and failure to provide.”
“Desertion.” Everyone knew that she had.
Mortimer scribbled a few words, then folded his hands atop the table. “You’re certain?”
“That I deserted him? Yes.”
“But you’re back.”
She glanced out the window. “Not for long.”
“You’ll need to sign some papers.”
“When?” She could always slip into town and out again, unseen, as she should have done in the first place.
“An hour?”
Annabeth’s lips tightened. She wanted to leave now, but if waiting an hour meant she wouldn’t have to return, she’d wait a damn hour.
“Fine,” she agreed.
“And your husband? Where is he?”
“No idea.”
“He’s probably at the grave. I’ll—”
Annabeth reached out and snatched Pryce Mortimer’s high-collared shirt. “What grave?”
CHAPTER 21
The hill wasn’t that far out of town, so Annabeth walked, even though she could see that Ethan had taken his horse. Maybe he just liked his horse.
As she hadn’t observed any evidence of life beyond that, perhaps Ethan wasn’t even there. Though who else would be at the grave of their child so early in the morning? Or ever, for that matter?
The sun beat down on the brim of her hat, hot enough to make sweat dampen the hair she’d stuffed beneath. Thunderclouds danced on the horizon. She was glad she’d asked Pryce Mortimer to keep her saddlebags until she returned. Dragging everything she owned up the slope would have made her more uncomfortable than she already was, and a summer storm would drench all of it.
Annabeth crested the rise as a breeze stirred the leaves of the huge oak tree. Removing her hat, she sighed as the wind cooled her. The air today was so thick, she could hardly breathe.
“Goway.” Ethan lay flat on his back. He didn’t even lift his head.
Annabeth knelt and traced the name on the headstone. “Michael,” she whispered; her voice broke.
“Don’t.” Ethan snatched her wrist.
Don’t touch? Speak? Cry? Stay? It didn’t matter.
“You should have told me he was here.”
“He isn’t.”
She tugged on her wrist, and he let go; then she brushed his brow as the wind blew through the leaves and whispered like a ghost in the night. “Are you sure?”
He kept his gaze on the clouds and not on her. “The dead don’t come back.”
“I did.”
He made an odd sound—half snort, half laugh—and laid his arm over his face. “Goway,” he repeated.
He slurred the word, and concern sparked. Had his wound become infected? What she could see of it appeared fine. Of course, who knew what was happening beneath the surface?
“What year is it, Ethan?”
“Ag fuck tú,” he muttered, though there was no heat to the words. “That means—”
“I know what it means.” Just because he’d spoken Gaelic didn’t mean he hadn’t been quite clear.
“I haven’t relapsed. If I had, I certainly wouldn’t remember our dead son beneath this tree.”
He had a point.
“You named him Michael,” she said.
“Someone had to.”
Annabeth had refused to name their child. She’d refused to look at him, to touch him, or be in the same room with him. She couldn’t bear it.
“Ethan,” she began as she got to her feet. He sat up so quickly, she stepped back.
The bullet whizzed past her chest and smashed into the tree, spraying bits of bark onto the grass. She dropped flat on the ground, shoving Ethan flat, too.
“Beth!” He lifted his head; she pushed it back down.
“Stay there.” She crept forward on her belly until she could peer over the edge of the hill at Freedom. Folks milled about. She didn’t see anyone on the streets that shouldn’t be.
If the shot had come from town, people would have run inside. They hadn’t. No one even glanced in their direction. Probably because the wind blew against her face, carrying sound toward her and away from them. Then Annabeth caught movement in the swaying prairie grass.
Someone was coming. Perhaps several someones.
“We have to go.” Annabeth scooted backward on her belly.
“Who is it?”
“I assume the same person who shot at you . . . me . . . us before.” She tugged on Ethan’s boot; he yanked his foot out of her reach and craned his neck
so he could see her face.
“Why do you think this is the same person?”
“Because if it’s someone else, we have more problems than I thought.”
“We can’t just leave.”
Annabeth let her forehead fall to the ground. Tempted to bang it against the hard summer earth a few times, she refrained. In the distance, thunder rumbled. “We can. We should. We have a horse; they don’t. Considering our position and my lack of ammunition . . .” She should never have left her saddlebags with the “loyer.” “We have to.”
Ethan must have heard the panic in her voice, because he crawled backward, too. They slithered along the ground until they reached the horse, which shuffled and huffed at their behavior.
“Mount up,” she said. “I’m right behind you.”
“You mount up.”
Annabeth’s fists tightened. She wanted him in front of her, protected. He obviously wanted the same thing. In reverse.
“I don’t know where we’re going,” he said.
“Right now, just away from here.” When he continued to hesitate, she shrugged and reached for her gun. “If you’d rather I shoot until my bullets run out . . .
He gave a growl of frustration and climbed into the saddle. She could have sworn he swayed a bit. He offered his hand, and she took it, swinging up behind him as he urged the animal into a run.
• • •
An hour later, Ethan reined in his horse. “Anyone following?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
She shrugged, rubbing her breasts against his back. Ethan ground his teeth together and closed his aching eyes.
The sun blazed down; he didn’t have a hat. They were both drenched in sweat, as was the horse. The blessed breeze that had rustled the leaves of the tree earlier had died, leaving behind an eerie stillness.
They couldn’t go on much longer. Ethan didn’t have a bottle that wasn’t empty, which was soon going to be a bigger problem than the heat or the gunfire.
“When can we turn around?”
“I don’t—” She tensed, the movement removing the soft weight of her breasts and slamming her gun belt into his spine.
“Hey.” His gaze followed hers; he stilled at the sight of the big, whirling, dirty cloud on the horizon.