Remember My Love

by Elise Dee Beraru

  The stitching stopped the bleeding, so Adele moved to the head wound. Cleaning it with boiling water, she forced her needle into the thin, stretched skin of his forehead and scalp and closed the laceration.

  Next, the wrapped, heated bricks were placed strategically under the bedclothes, their heat radiating into that tall, lean body that lay so still, chest barely rising and falling.

  "Susannah, I want you to lift his head slightly and try to get him to swallow some tea. Wet a handkerchief with the tea and squeeze it into his mouth if necessary, a little at a time. I'm going to put Esmeralda away and bring in the rabbits. Then I'm going to put on some dry clothes and relieve you while you dress the rabbits and make something with them."

  THE NEXT SIX days were a challenge and a discovery. The stranger remained unconscious, muttering unintelligible words in his delirium and occasionally flinching as if warding off blows. Mercifully, he never developed the lung congestion that might signal pneumonia.

  While Susannah did her chores and cooking, Adele worked hard at keeping the man warm, clean and fed. Using a handkerchief, she slowly squeezed broth or water into his mouth, stroking his throat so he would swallow it. When Susannah was in the barn doing chores, Adele cleaned her patient and would change his nightshirt.

  The stranger's breathing became steadier and his color better over the days that followed and it appeared that if he regained consciousness, he might live. Realizing he would need something to wear, one morning when they were alone in the cabin, Adele surreptitiously grabbed her tape measure from her sewing basket and quickly measured his inseam, embarrassed a bit at the personal contact with his maleness, but more surprised at her tingling reaction to the touch. She then chided herself for taking so intimate a measurement first. She took other measurements as well, using them to alter a shirt and lengthen a pair of trousers from her father's wardrobe.

  While Adele sewed, Susannah sat by the stranger, her sketchpad and pencil in hand, busily drawing sketch after sketch of his face and hands.

  "I wonder what color his eyes are."

  "Hmmm?"

  "I said, did you see what color his eyes are?"

  Adele rose and walked over to the bed. "No, he's never been conscious."

  She looked down at the face. The bruising around his eyes had nearly vanished. It was a wholly masculine face, thick black eyebrows and straight spiky lashes, an aquiline nose above a well-trimmed mustache and full sensuous lips. A speculation suddenly flashed in Adele's mind as to how it might feel to be kissed by that mouth. She closed her eyes against the folly of such thought. The man had a strong chin, squarish and only slightly softened by the unshaven black stubble that covered it. Even without seeing his eyes, Adele knew this was the most arrestingly handsome man she had ever laid eyes on.

  "If his eyes are anything like the rest of his face," observed Adele, "I'll bet he had to beat the girls off with a stick."

  "I wonder where he comes from," mused the younger girl.

  The elder lifted his left hand and turned it over. "City, I reckon. Denver, maybe, or Chicago."

  "I wonder why he was out on the range."

  "If he is from the city, maybe he didn't know any better than to ride alone in the wintertime on open range."

  "What makes you think he was alone?"

  "If he wasn't alone, maybe he could have fought off whoever attacked and robbed him. I guess we'll have to wait until he regains consciousness and ask him."

  "Do you think that will be soon?"

  "I hope so. He's getting stronger, but he's not going to live long if we have to feed him one swallow at a time like we've been doing."

  THE MORNING OF November 18th was slightly milder than the preceding week had been. After Susannah finished with the barn chores, Adele went outside to the woodshed to chop some firewood while her younger sister sat with their charge.

  Susannah was sitting by the bed, sketching the stranger again, when, quietly and without warning, his eyes opened and he stared right at her, confusion apparent.

  Susannah stared back for a brief moment, then rose and limped over to the window that gave a view of the woodshed, opening it. "Sissy," she called out.

  Hearing the window open, a rarity in winter, Adele looked up. "What's up?"

  "Gray," said Susannah. "His eyes are gray."

  Resting the ax against the chopping block, Adele ran back into the house and over to the bedside.

  Yes, his eyes were indeed gray, dark gray like a stormy sky. "Good morning, stranger," she began with a smile, sliding into the chair set next to the bed.

  "Where am I?" came a richly-toned voice that was perfectly suited to the handsome face, handsome despite its pallor and six days growth of beard.

  "This is the Stoddard farm. This is my sister Susannah Stoddard and...."

  "And you're Sissy...."

  "I prefer Adele."

  "Hmm. How did I get here?"

  "Oh, that was very dramatic," interrupted Susannah. "Sissy found you in the snow all broken and bloody and brought you here all by herself."

  Adele shrugged. "Just doing the right thing."

  "How did I get `all broken and bloody?'"

  "Well, actually, mister, I was hoping you could tell me that."

  The stranger closed his eyes for a hard moment, trying to concentrate. "I can't think. My head is splitting and my hand is so sore."

  "Well, you have a nasty laceration on your forehead. I'd have to guess someone beat you up pretty badly and then hit you over the head with a blunt object, like a gun butt. Between that and a fever, you've been out cold for six days, so it must have been quite a blow."

  "Did whoever hit me on the head break my hand, too? My little finger feels like it's on fire."

  "Well, mister, I don't know how to tell you this except to say it straight out, but whoever ambushed you seems to have chopped off the little finger that's giving you so much pain. Were you wearing a ring or something?"

  The stranger lifted up his right hand and looked at it as if it didn't belong to him. He examined the small stitches at the amputation site, as tears formed in his eyes, making them shine like silver. As if angry with himself, he blinked them away immediately. "I can't remember," he responded with a choked, swallowed sound. "I really can't remember what happened to me."

  "Maybe it will come back to you," responded Adele, matter-of-factly. "Listen, I don't feel real comfortable calling you `mister' or `stranger' all the time. Can you tell me your name?"

  The man's eyes flared with terror. He closed them as if trying to concentrate, then reopened them with great pain reflected in them. For the longest time, he said nothing, than when he finally opened his mouth, the response was devastating.

  "I can't remember my name either. I don't know who I am."

  Chapter 4

  THE STRANGER became eerily silent after that revelation, looking away from the women; afraid his frustration would bring tears rather than rage. If he was going to cry, he was going to be damned sure no woman saw it. He didn't know why this was so important to him, but right now it was.

  The man is conscious now, Adele thought, there's work to be done that isn't going away. When he's ready to talk, he will. Shrugging her shoulders, she walked back outside the house, and returned to the woodshed.

  What she didn't see was the stranger's gray eyes following her out the door, nor did she hear the slight catch in his breath. This Adele is a beauty, he thought. Her eyes were the color of fine brandy; her hair like sable as it fell in a single braid down her long, slim back ending halfway between her hips and knees. She had dark, arched eyebrows and long curled eyelashes. Her nose was straight, which gave her a serious expression. Her lips were full and a dusky rose in color. Her face was angular with high cheekbones and slightly golden from working outside. The man's fingers itched to brush the tips along those cheekbones; his mouth tingled to see what those lips might taste like.

  God damn, I'm barely conscious, can't remember a thing about myself, even my name
, and I'm lusting after my rescuer, he thought angrily. What kind of a bastard am I? He curled his hands into fists and slammed them down on the bed beside him, groaning as the impact jarred the stitches over the amputation site.

  The sounds alerted Susannah, who paused a moment in her cooking. "Are you okay, mister?"

  "I suppose so. Just frustrated. It's as if I didn't exist until an hour ago. What date is it?"

  "November 18th, 1873."

  "Where are we?"

  "Wyoming Territory; about twenty miles east of Green River and about a hundred miles west of nowhere. We don't have any neighbors closer than about fifteen miles in any direction."

  "Pretty isolated."

  "Yeah, particularly when it snows early like it has. We get kind of trapped here `til spring."

  "Is it just you and your sister?"

  "There are the animals--but no other people since Pa died--except for you. Haven't had any company since the factor bought our crop back in September."

  "The factor?"

  "Mr. Duneagan; he's a man who buys crops from small farms like ours, arranges for reapers to harvest them and sells them to someone else. I don't understand it all that well, not like Sissy does, but with Pa gone at least it gives us a chance to get some cash in for our crop."

  "What do you grow?"

  "Wheat and corn as cash crops. We also have a vegetable garden, a cow and some chickens. I tend the garden and the cow and chickens. I also do the cooking. Sissy doesn't cook that well." Susannah lifted her skirt slightly, revealing the heavy, misshapen boot. "I can't get around well enough to work in the fields. The last two years Sissy plowed, planted and did the cultivating all by herself. She also does all the hunting, since I can't ride a horse," she finished with the sound of regret in her voice.

  "Adele hasn't been married then?"

  "No. Nobody really ever comes around that might propose to her. The reapers are rovers, and we never spend too much time in town or go too often because it's so far away. Sissy's probably too busy to miss being married, I guess."

  "You don't think every girl wants to get married?"

  "I guess I never thought much about it."

  The stranger looked at Susannah with the same thoughtful assessment he had used on Adele. While there was no doubt these two were sisters, Susannah was far shorter than Adele, at least five or six inches shorter, and considerably younger. She had the same whisky-brown eyes and sable hair, brows and lashes, but she wore her waist-length hair down, pulling only the hair above her ear level back into a small braid. Her face was rounder and paler, her nose slightly turned up, giving her a merrier look. Although she was obviously just emerging into womanhood, she was already showing promise of voluptuousness. Susannah was going to be the kind of woman people referred to as well-upholstered when she matured. While the combination might be pleasing to some, the stranger found that her pleasant lushness did not appeal to him as much as the slim, serious demeanor of her older sister. She wasn't unattractive, just not his taste.

  Funny, you remember you have taste in women but not who you are or where you come from.

  Her dinner preparations in the oven, Susannah grabbed her drawing board, some vellum and pencils and sat down in the chair by the bed. "Do you mind if I draw you?"

  He glanced at the supplies. "Draw me?"

  "Yes, I want to be an artist. I draw all the time--um--once my chores are done. Someday I want to paint, too."

  "Have you drawn me before?"

  Susannah looked embarrassed. "While you were out I did."

  "May I see?"

  "You want to see my drawings?" Susannah asked in wonder. No one ever asked to see her work; even Adele no longer asked.

  "Yes, it occurs to me that I don't remember what I look like."

  Susannah went over to the sideboard near the table and came back with a small stack of papers. The man looked at the sketches of himself. The subject's eyes were closed, so it was difficult to determine his true likeness, but he could see real talent. This was even truer of the studies the girl had drawn of his hands. It was as if his hands had character of their own, particularly the mutilated right. "These are quite good."

  Susannah smiled. "Thanks. Now, can I draw you with your eyes open this time?"

  The man brushed his left hand against his stubbled chin. "I think I'd rather you waited until I can shave. Do you have a razor and mirror?"

  "I'm sure we have Pa's razor still, only I don't know how sharp it is. Our only mirror has almost lost its silvering. Maybe Sissy can shave you later. She used to shave Pa when he was sick."

  It occurred to the stranger with a jolt that it might be very interesting to have that tall beauty close enough to him to shave him while he was conscious. The idea seemed to warm him down to his groin.

  Then he scolded himself again for being a lustful bastard. What kind of man thought of nothing but sex when it came to women? The stranger realized that his only consideration of either Stoddard woman was according to her physical attributes. He frowned. Was he so shallow an individual in that life now shrouded in darkness? If so, he reasoned, he had a chance to be someone else entirely.

  He only wished he knew who that someone else might be.

  Outside, Adele had finished with the ax and went into the barn, angry with herself for the peculiar thoughts this stranger was putting into her head and the unusual sensations running through her body. Figuring that something backbreaking would clear her mind, she picked up the pitchfork and, climbing the rope ladder into the haymow, she began to pitch hay down into the stalls. Esmeralda, Mabel and the jenny began to eat greedily as the beneficiaries of Adele's sudden industry.

  Having worked up a sweat already, Adele climbed back down the ladder and began to rake out the stalls, shoveling manure and trampled hay into a mulch bin. This was Susannah's job and had been done already a couple of days previously, so there really wasn't that much to rake, but the barn was warmer than the outside air and Adele felt safer from her lustful thoughts.

  "What's the matter with you?" she chided herself between rakefuls. "Haven't got the sense you were born with? When his memory comes back, he won't want a too tall, skinny farm girl. He'll want to go back to his people."

  Leaning against the barn wall, Adele drew her arms around herself and closed her eyes. Immediately an image of the tall stranger holding her appeared in her mind's eye. "No!" she cried, "I can't allow it."

  But you want him, her mind played back. "No, it's just the wild imagining of an old maid," she said aloud, thinking if she said it enough times, she would believe it.

  She slid down the wall until she was sitting on her tailbone with her heels drawn in and her knees drawn up. Tears filled her eyes and spilled over onto her cheeks. She had never been one for self-pity, but suddenly she was seized with the realization of how lonely it was living alone with just Susannah for company.

  Little Gent emerged from a corner of the barn and climbed onto Adele's knees, rubbing his head against her cheek to compel a petting. Adele began to scratch the tabby-striped head and white chin of the little tomcat. "Well at least you'll always love me," she sighed miserably.

  A COUPLE OF hours later, Adele finally dragged herself back into the house, having washed with cold water in the woodshed. Susannah had done her chores; the house was spotless, the table set for two, dinner was sitting on the stove waiting for Adele to come in for it. Susannah was sitting on a chair at one end of the table drawing something, deep in concentration.

  "We were afraid you had fallen down the privy or something," remarked the stranger with a grin.

  He was sitting up in bed. His teasing grin was so devastating it fairly took Adele's breath away. God, even his teeth were beautiful.

  By the bedside, Susannah had pulled up a chair. A half-eaten bowl of stew and a teacup lay on the chair.

  "You're eating," she observed.

  "Well, more or less. I'm afraid I'm having a little trouble gripping the spoon because of the stitches. I'm awfully clum
sy with it now."

  "I think the stitches can come out in a few more days. It may take a while longer for you to get used to only having four fingers on that hand. Do you want me to help you?"

  "I think I can manage the spoon, but you can help me otherwise."

  "What can I do?"

  "I'm not sure I can handle a razor with this hand yet and would really like a shave."

  "Of course, let me have some dinner and I'll shave you later, okay?"

  The stranger agreed and again reached for the bowl and spoon to finish his meal. Adele brought the plates over to the stove and served herself and her sister with helpings of the rabbit stew. The savory scent of the stew tore Susannah's concentration from her drawing long enough to join her sister in their simple dinner.

  As promised, after dinner Adele retrieved the razor and strop from her father's chest and honed the edge as carefully as possible. She pulled the small, faded mirror from the dressing table in the bedroom and filled a mixing bowl with hot water from the kettle. There was no more of her father's shaving soap, so Adele grabbed the hand soap and a towel from the kitchen sink.

  "Why the kitchen soap?" asked the stranger.

  "No scent. It wouldn't do for you to smell like roses."

  "Roses suit you."

  "A small indulgence."

  Adele soaped her hands into a lather and began to apply the foam to the stranger's cheeks. His face seemed hot, or was it her hands? She pulled her hands away.

  "Something wrong?" came his hoarse inquiry. Her proximity made his heart pound harder.

  "No, no," followed her over quick reply. She continued to gently lather his face, feeling the strength in his jaw. He watched her with veiled eyes, barely daring to breathe at her closeness. He wanted to reach up and touch her cheek as she was doing to his, but fought off the feeling.

  Adele picked up the razor in her left hand and carefully began to stroke his face with it, thanking God that her shaking insides were not transmitting to her hands. Carefully avoiding his mustache, she removed the offending stubble from his face and beneath his jaw to his neck. On finishing, she washed off the remaining soap with a damp towel and handed him the mirror. He stared at the faded image without speaking for the longest time.