Secrets

by Brenda Joyce

  He had be­en ri­ding with his free hand on his thigh, now he to­uc­hed her arm bri­efly. "Don't dwell on it," he told her. "It's not go­ing to help to get yo­ur­self mo­re frig­h­te­ned."

  "I am frig­h­te­ned," she sa­id. She twis­ted to lo­ok in­to his eyes. The­ir ga­zes col­li­ded. Ne­it­her one lo­oked away.

  "The­re's no re­ason to be frig­h­te­ned. You'll rest at Mi­ra­mar un­til you re­mem­ber."

  She did not re­lax. "What if I ne­ver re­mem­ber?"

  For a mo­ment he did not an­s­wer. "You will re­mem­ber. It just may ta­ke so­me ti­me."

  "And what abo­ut tho­se thi­eves? What hap­pe­ned to them?" she cri­ed.

  "They es­ca­ped."

  Re­gi­na mo­aned.

  "They'll be ca­ught," Sla­de sa­id firmly. "Don't even worry abo­ut them. They're the le­ast of yo­ur con­cerns. Eli­za­beth, we pro­tect our own. We al­ways ha­ve. We al­ways will. Trust me."

  She stra­ined to lo­ok in­to his eyes aga­in. The­re was not­hing enig­ma­tic abo­ut his re­gard. It was hard with de­ter­mi­na­ti­on, with pro­mi­se. Re­gi­na be­li­eved him. And with the be­li­ef ca­me ab­so­lu­te trust. He was James's brot­her and he was her res­cu­er, and now, now he was of­fe­ring to pro­tect her. She wo­uld eagerly ac­cept his of­fer. “Thank you.”

  He ga­ve her a smi­le. It was ten­ta­ti­ve, a small form of en­co­ura­ge­ment. Very slightly and just as ten­ta­ti­vely, Re­gi­na smi­led back. His arm slip­ped aro­und her wa­ist.

  She sta­red at it. The mas­cu­li­nity of it-of him-st­ruck her at on­ce, as did the pro­tec­ti­ve­ness of his ges­tu­re.

  Then she won­de­red what wo­uld hap­pen when she saw James, which wo­uld un­do­ub­tedly be in the very ne­ar fu­tu­re. He must be wa­iting for her in Tem­p­le­ton, dis­t­ra­ught.

  Pa­nic swept thro­ugh her aga­in. She tri­ed to sum­mon up a re­col­lec­ti­on of her fi­ancй. To her dis­may, to her, hor­ror, Sla­de's ima­ge was im­p­lan­ted ir­re­vo­cably in her mind now, es­pe­ci­al­ly the ima­ge of his hard ba­re arm wrap­ped aro­und her wa­ist; James was not­hing mo­re than a va­gue, fa­ce­less sha­dow. She didn't even know what she her­self lo­oked li­ke, she re­ali­zed in shock.

  "What is it?" Sla­de as­ked qu­ickly.

  His as­tu­te­ness was un­ner­ving. "I can't re­mem­ber James no mat­ter how hard I try. It do­esn't se­ems right."

  Sla­de sa­id not­hing, but be­ca­use they we­re in such an in­ti­ma­te po­si­ti­on, she felt the ten­si­on over­co­me his body aga­in. Ab­ruptly his arm fell away from her.

  "I don't even know what I lo­ok li­ke," she ad­ded. A long pa­use fol­lo­wed her words. "Blon­de," Sla­de' sa­id ro­ughly. "Yo­ur ha­ir is long and blon­de. Not pa­le or sil­ver, but gold, with red in it."

  She twis­ted to lo­ok at him, sur­p­ri­sed that he wo­uld vo­lun­te­er such a de­ta­iled des­c­rip­ti­on of her ha­ir. But h wo­uld not lo­ok at her aga­in.

  "Tell me abo­ut Mi­ra­mar. Tell me abo­ut James," sh1 sa­id in­to the aw­k­ward si­len­ce. She was awa­re of be­ing ple­ased that he li­ked her ha­ir. "Tell me ever­y­t­hing I sho­uld know."

  "Mi­ra­mar?" His vo­ice sof­te­ned. "You'll fall in lo­ve with it the mo­ment you see it. The­re's no pla­ce o earth li­ke Mi­ra­mar. Our land li­es bet­we­en the San Ro­sa Cre­ek in the north and the Vil­la Cre­ek in t' so­uth. It butts right up to the Pa­ci­fic Oce­an. On­ce we had over fifty tho­usand ac­res; on­ce our bor­ders re­ac­hed the land that's now the town of Tem­p­le­ton. We've only got a third of the ori­gi­nal grant left, but what we do ha­ve is the he­art of God's co­untry."

  Re­gi­na was mo­ti­on­less. This man was in lo­ve, she re­ali­zed, stun­ned, in lo­ve with this pla­ce cal­led Mi­ra­mar. It was al­most as if he we­re tal­king abo­ut a wo­man.

  "The ran­c­ho is mostly hills and small hid­den val­leys, but it's go­od gra­zing land. We mostly run be­ef," Sla­de sa­id in the sa­me soft vo­ice. "But we've put a few ac­res to oran­ges and le­mons and we even ha­ve an al­mond or­c­hard." He smi­led. "Best al­monds aro­und. We've al­so got a wi­nery and damn if we don't ma­ke the best wi­ne in the en­ti­re sta­te. By the co­ast the hills are co­ve­red with pi­ne and craw­ling with wil­d­li­fe. We hunt ve­ni­son and elk in the win­ter and catch fres­h­wa­ter tro­ut in the sum­mer. Not for sport, but to eat. From ti­me to ti­me you can see mo­re than a few gold eag­les, and even the oc­ca­si­onal baldy. The­re's damn go­od fis­hing in the oce­an, too, and all ye­ar long you can watch the sea li­ons the­re, ex­cept for May and June, when they're bre­eding. The co­ast at Mi­ra­mar is pro­bably the most be­a­uti­ful you'll ever see. Up north it's wild and ro­ugh, hem­med in by cliffs, but on the co­ve whe­re we swim the be­ac­hes are flat and smo­oth, the co­lor of tho­se pe­arl ear-bobs you're we­aring. Even so, the oce­an can be dan­ge­ro­us-pe­op­le ha­ve drow­ned the­re. You don't swim un­less you're strong and fit. We've be­en swim­ming the­re sin­ce we we­re boys."

  "We?"

  "My brot­hers and me. Ed­ward… and James."

  Re­gi­na was si­lent. She was com­p­le­tely ca­ught up in his glo­wing des­c­rip­ti­on of his ho­me. She had ne­ver se­en a sea li­on, and won­de­red what it was exactly. Mi­ra­mar so­un­ded too be­a­uti­ful, too won­der­ful to be true. And she co­uld ima­gi­ne three yo­ung boys pla­ying the­re, whi­le the mythi­cal sea li­ons wat­c­hed.

  "Tell me abo­ut him," Re­gi­na ur­ged sud­denly, awa­re of the small pi­er­cing of gu­ilt. James was her fi­ancй and she not only co­uldn't re­mem­ber an­y­t­hing abo­ut him, she didn't even ha­ve the slig­h­test fe­elings for him. She was de­ter­mi­ned to know all abo­ut him be­fo­re she was re­uni­ted with him. She re­ali­zed that Sla­de was si­lent "James," she re­pe­at-His vo­ice and that he had ten­sed be­hind her.”James,” she re­pe­ated. "Tell me abo­ut him."

  "J­esus. I don't even know whe­re to start”, his vo­ice was ro­ugh.

  "What do­es he lo­ok li­ke?"

  "Big. Big­ger than me. Lots big­ger. And han­d­so­me. Re­al han­d­so­me. Wo­men…" He stop­ped.

  Re­gi­na co­uld gu­ess what he had be­en abo­ut to say, and she shif­ted to lo­ok up at him aga­in. She was shoc­ked to see his mo­uth drawn in a grim li­ne, his eyes ble­ak. When he ca­ught her re­gar­ding him he qu­ickly lo­oked away.

  "He co­uld al­ways ha­ve any wo­man he wan­ted. Not just be­ca­use of his lo­oks. But be­ca­use he was kind. James was a kind man. The­re's no one kin­der. He was al­ways hel­ping ot­hers, even lo­uses-even tho­se he sho­uldn't ha­ve bot­he­red with."

  "Then I'm very lucky," Re­gi­na sa­id softly, but she still felt not­hing at all ex­cept an ex­t­re­me in­te­rest in how much Sla­de lo­ved his brot­her. He didn't se­em to' he­ar her.

  "No one's smar­ter than James," Sla­de sa­id. "With num­bers and with words. Can he wri­te! No one can wri­te a pret­ti­er let­ter, I know that fir­s­t­hand. And no one is a har­der wor­ker. And lo­yal. James was lo­yal, he'd ne­ver let you or an­yo­ne el­se down. When he ma­de a pro­mi­se, when he ma­de a com­mit­ment, he kept it. No mat­ter what."

  "He so­unds li­ke a pa­ra­gon," Re­gi­na sa­id wis­t­ful­ly.

  For a mo­ment Sla­de was si­lent. "The­re was no one li­ke James. No one. He was a pa­ra­gon."

  It sud­denly struck Re­gi­na that Sla­de was re­fer­ring to her fi­ancй in the past ten­se. "Why do you ke­ep sa­ying he was this and he was that?" she as­ked.

  Sla­de ten­sed. For a long ti­me he co­uld not spe­ak, and Re­gi­na knew. "Be­ca­use he was strong and he was smart," he fi­nal­ly sa­id. "But not an­y­mo­re. James is de­ad."

  Chapter 2

  The­re was only one ho­tel in Tem­p­le­ton, right on Ma­in Stre­et, al­t­ho­ug
h the town's sin­g­le sa­lo­on ad­ver­ti­sed that it al­so had ro­oms for rent. The ho­tel, a fal­se-fron­ted, brand-new brick bu­il­ding, was adj­acent to the sa­lo­on. Ne­it­her es­tab­lis­h­ment had a na­me. The sign HO­TEL and the sign SA­LO­ON we­re suf­fi­ci­ent, ap­pa­rently, for both the prop­ri­etors and the pat­rons of the­se es­tab­lis­h­ments.

  An oc­ca­si­onal oak tree pro­vi­ded so­me sha­de at the so­ut­hern end of town. The­re was a bo­ar­d­walk in­s­te­ad of a pa­ved si­de­walk but no stre­et­lights. Ma­in Stre­et was a wi­de dirt tho­ro­ug­h­fa­re. The ra­il­ro­ad ran pa­ral­lel to it, one block over, on this si­de of the dry Sa­li­nas Ri­ver.

  On the ot­her si­de of the ho­tel was a small ba­kery and ca­fe. The­re was al­so a ge­ne­ral sto­re, a me­at mar­ket, an of­fi­ce of the West Co­ast Land Com­pany, a bar­ber shop, a blac­k­s­mith's, and se­ve­ral ot­her re­ta­il es­tab­lis­h­ments m the "bu­si­ness dis­t­rict," which en­com­pas­sed se­ve­ral blocks. Most of the bu­il­dings we­re wo­oden and very new; the­re we­re many plots of va­cant land in­ter­s­per­sed bet­we­en them. The en­ti­re town pro­bably had two do­zen dwel­lings.

  Sla­de told her that the­re had be­en a fi­re two ye­ars ago which had wi­ped out most of the town's cen­ter.

  But by then Tem­p­le­ton had al­re­ady se­en its very bri­ef hey­day. It had be­en a ra­il­ro­ad bo­om­town for just a few short ye­ars, ro­un­ded in an­ti­ci­pa­ti­on of the ra­il­ro­ad's ad­vent by shrewd spe­cu­la­tors who had bo­ught out and car­ved up the ori­gi­nal Me­xi­can ran­c­hos. Af­ter the fi­re, many of the­se prop­ri­etors had go­ne el­sew­he­re in­s­te­ad of re­bu­il­ding, le­aving Tem­p­le­ton to do­ze qu­i­etly in the Ca­li­for­nia sun, mo­re ghostly than be­fo­re.

  Tem­p­le­ton's sa­ving gra­ce was its set­ting. It was sur­ro­un­ded by an en­d­less li­ne of sun­bur­ned hills and bril­li­ant blue ski­es; oc­ca­si­onal­ly a tran­s­lu­cent sil­ver-li­ned clo­ud puf­fed past them. No mat­ter whe­re one lo­oked, the­re was be­a­uty, ma­j­esty, and eter­nity in the Ca­li­for­nia lan­d­s­ca­pe.

  Now Re­gi­na sto­od alo­ne in the mid­dle of the ho­tel ro­om, un­mo­ving. Sla­de had left her the­re just a mo­ment ago, in­tent on fin­ding the town's doc­tor.

  Re­gi­na did not want to be alo­ne. She trem­b­led. Be­ing alo­ne was frig­h­te­ning. The­re had be­en so much com­fort in Sla­de's pre­sen­ce; now the­re was a vo­id. And an­xi­ety was rus­hing in to fill the vo­id cre­ated by her so­li­tu­de. The­re was ga­ping lo­ne­li­ness in be­ing alo­ne in the ho­tel ro­om, a stran­ger to her­self.

  How she ye­ar­ned for Sla­de's pre­sen­ce, as if they we­re old and de­ar fri­ends, not ac­tu­al stran­gers. But they we­re re­al­ly only that. In the ho­ur or so that it had ta­ken them to re­ach town, they had not fur­t­he­red the­ir ac­qu­a­in­tan­ce. Af­ter he had told her that James was de­ad, they had rid­den in com­p­le­te si­len­ce. She had be­en ab­le to fe­el his gri­ef. She wo­uld not in­t­ru­de upon it, not kno­wingly. Her own he­art had ac­hed for him.

  Sud­denly Re­gi­na slid the de­ad bolt on the do­or. Her ner­ves, she re­ali­zed, we­re shat­te­red, but loc­king the do­or did lit­tle to so­ot­he them. She tur­ned, fa­cing the ro­om. The­re we­re fi­ve trunks stac­ked ne­atly in one cor­ner. The top one was open. Had she had a ma­id, she wo­uld as­su­me that so­me­one had un­pac­ked so­me of her things. But she did not ha­ve a ma­id, and she co­uld only think the wor­st-that so­me­one had be­en go­ing thro­ugh her be­lon­gings.

  She trem­b­led aga­in. Why wo­uld so­me­one in­va­de her pri­vacy li­ke that? Tho­se trunks be­lon­ged to her. Sla­de had sa­id so. Even tho­ugh she had not the fa­in­test idea of what the trunks con­ta­ined, she had a sen­se of be­ing vi­ola­ted. But mo­re im­por­tantly, wo­uld she re­cog­ni­ze her things? Wo­uld her me­mory be jar­red, and wo­uld she fi­nal­ly re­mem­ber who she was?

  Alo­ne, she was des­pe­ra­te to know her­self. But she was af­ra­id, af­ra­id that she wo­uld lo­ok in the trunks and be fa­ced with anot­her blank wall. She did not mo­ve.

  Inste­ad, her glan­ce jer­ked over the ro­om. It was small and shabby. The walls we­re pa­pe­red in a pretty ro­se­bud pat­tern, but they we­re sta­ined and co­uld use a go­od cle­aning. The­re was a scar­red bu­re­au, a ric­kety ar­mo­ire, and two up­hol­s­te­red cha­irs, but they did not match each ot­her or the ro­om. The bed was not­hing mo­re than a cot with a thin com­for­ter and the­re was a hand-lo­omed rug un­der­fo­ot which had se­en too many tres­pas­sers. Re­gi­na ref­lec­ted upon her set­ting. Al­t­ho­ugh she didn't ha­ve her me­mory, she knew that this ho­tel ro­om was not up to stan­dard. Or-it was not up to her stan­dard. So Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir was no stran­ger to tra­vel, but she was used to so­mew­hat bet­ter ac­com­mo­da­ti­ons.

  And then she saw the mir­ror.

  For one se­cond she sta­red. Then she rus­hed to it. Pa­in dar­ted thro­ugh her so­re an­k­le but she ig­no­red it. She ca­me to a halt in front of the mir­ror and she blin­ked, sta­ring at her­self. Her ho­pes cras­hed. For she was lo­oking not at a de­ar and fa­mi­li­ar fa­ce, but at a pa­le and frig­h­te­ned stran­ger.

  She cho­ked on a sob, clut­c­hing the ed­ge of the bu­re­au to hold her­self up­right. Di­sap­po­in­t­ment im­mo­bi­li­zed her. Shock ma­de her dizzy. She had to fight to calm her­self, ta­king de­ep, ste­ad­ying bre­aths, un­til the flo­or ce­ased its ed­dying.

  Fi­nal­ly the sen­sa­ti­on of be­ing on a mo­ving ship pas­sed. The diz­zi­ness di­sap­pe­ared. Still grip­ping the bu­re­au tightly, she in­s­pec­ted her­self as one wo­man might in­s­pect anot­her who was both a new­co­mer and a ri­val. The­re was a fi­ne co­ating of dust on her fa­ce and

  dirt sta­ins on her bo­di­ce, but Re­gi­na ba­rely saw them. Her ha­ir was pi­led hap­ha­zardly on her he­ad, and as Sla­de had sa­id, it was a rich blon­de tin­ged with red lights, a mass of shim­me­ring ho­neys and golds. It was a very unu­su­al co­lor. She co­uld un­der­s­tand how Sla­de wo­uld ad­mi­re it, but the ple­asu­re she had felt be­fo­re over his ap­pa­rent in­te­rest was go­ne.

  She stu­di­ed her fa­ce in­ten­sely. It was oval, high-che­ek­bo­ned, de­li­ca­te. Her mo­uth was full and rosy-red, her com­p­le­xi­on pa­le but to­uc­hed with gold be­ne­ath the dust. Her eyes we­re lig­ht-brown, am­ber. Her las­hes we­re long and dark, as we­re her brows. It ga­ve her a dra­ma­tic ap­pe­aran­ce.

  Sta­ring at the stran­ger in the mir­ror, she co­uld only ho­pe that she was dre­aming. She to­uc­hed her che­ek to ma­ke su­re that she was in­de­ed sta­ring at her­self, to ma­ke su­re that this aw­ful and bi­zar­re epi­so­de was re­al, and not a nig­h­t­ma­re. It was re­al. Her fin­ger­tips we­re smo­oth on her skin, the flo­or be­ne­ath her fe­et was hard and so­lid, the ro­om aro­und three-di­men­si­onal, not one.

  A ru­de, un­wel­co­me tho­ught in­t­ru­ded. She had jum­ped off the tra­in. Re­gi­na's pul­se ac­ce­le­ra­ted. She still co­uld not re­mem­ber, and trying only ca­used an in­s­tant he­adac­he. Lo­oking at her­self now, she co­uld un­der­s­tand why she had le­aped off a spe­eding tra­in. She was very be­a­uti­ful, the kind of wo­man who co­uld ha­ve be­en sin­g­led out by out­laws for mo­re than rob­bery.

  What had hap­pe­ned? A ter­rib­le pa­in pi­er­ced the back of her he­ad and a gun­s­hot so­un­ded. She clap­ped her hands over her ears. For a mo­ment she sto­od fro­zen, frig­h­te­ned. Ab­ruptly she tur­ned and ran to the win­dow, lo­oking down at Ma­in Stre­et. It was de­ser­ted ex­cept for one over­bur­de­ned dray pul­led by two dusty mu­les. She lif­ted the win­dow, which ope­ned re­luc­tantly. A warm bre­eze to­uc­hed her damp fa­ce. She lis­te­ned in­t
ently for anot­her gun­s­hot as a small boy slowly bic­y­c­led in­to vi­ew, a bal­lo­on ti­ed to the back of his se­at, but only he­ard a dog yap­ping, wind chi­mes, and so­me ma­le la­ug­h­ter from the sa­lo­on be­low.

  She knew that she hadn't he­ard a gun­s­hot. It had be­en in her mind. Yet it had be­en so re­al. Had it be­en a me­mory?

  Numb, Re­gi­na sank in­to the blue-and-whi­te cha­ir. For many mi­nu­tes she did not think and she did not mo­ve. She did not da­re. And when she did think, she fo­und her­self ye­ar­ning for Sla­de.

  Aga­inst her will, her ga­ze set­tled on the trunks. She ma­de no mo­ve to go over to them. Yet she knew she must. She had just had a me­mory, she was cer­ta­in of it. Had it be­en ca­used by the sight of her own ref­lec­ti­on? If so, wo­uld her own pos­ses­si­ons trig­ger an even gre­ater re­col­lec­ti­on? Fe­ar was al­most im­mo­bi­li­zing her. Swe­at tric­k­led down her che­ek­bo­nes.

  Li­ke a som­nam­bu­list, Re­gi­na sto­od and mo­ved slowly ac­ross the ro­om. She le­aned over the open trunk. So­me­one had in­de­ed be­en the­re be­fo­re her, rum­ma­ging among her clot­hes. They we­re rum­p­led, not fol­ded ne­atly. She lif­ted out a day dress. The fab­ric was of the fi­nest li­nen, and the gar­ment was cus­tom-ma­de. She lif­ted out anot­her dress. It was an ex­pen­si­ve silk. She did not re­cog­ni­ze eit­her dress, and by the ti­me she had re­ac­hed the bot­tom of the trunk, she was bre­at­hing hard, as if she had run a gre­at en­du­ran­ce ra­ce. She had be­en told that the­se we­re her pos­ses­si­ons, but she had ne­ver se­en them be­fo­re. They had not re­vi­ta­li­zed her me­mory. And she was not he­aring any mo­re frig­h­te­ning gun­s­hots in her mind, gun­s­hots that so­un­ded in­c­re­dibly re­al.

  She had only go­ne thro­ugh one trunk, but she was ex­ha­us­ted. She did not ha­ve the strength to mo­ve it in or­der to open the one be­low, and she sank in­to a cha­ir. She was per­s­pi­ring. It was very hot out, but that wasn't why her shir­t­wa­ist was clin­ging to her skin.