Chapter 2

Two

Alice Spencer scrubbed a pair of dark blue pants over the washboard across the tub. The suds in the water had developed a brown hue so she figured this washtub was only good for one or two more items of clothing.

Her lower back ached. Her knees felt every inch of the hard-packed earth beneath them as she knelt over the tub of water she'd lugged from the nearby creek to the circle of wagons. But it was her heart that felt sick.

They'd camped in this same spot for two days as search party after search party had been sent out to locate Hollis Tremblay and Abigail Fletcher. Both the wagon master and the young woman had disappeared after a river crossing two days ago, and the captains of their Oregon-bound train had refused to move on until the two were found.

Abigail's wagon had been abandoned on the bank of the river, the oxen still in their traces. But there was no sign of either person, or of Hollis's horse. Alice was worried for her friend. And for the rest of the pioneers who'd come west under Hollis's leadership.

Tensions had escalated in camp. Even so, the work never seemed to end.

A bubble landed on Alice's cheek. She rubbed it against her shoulder. The motion caused a strand of russet hair to fall from its pins right into her eyes. She blew air straight up, not willing to get soapy water all over her face.

"I'm fine." Alice's sister-in-law Stella stood at the back of her nearby conestoga wagon.

"You don't look fine," Alice's brother Collin, Stella's husband, said.

He was right.

Stella was one of the toughest women Alice had ever met. For several weeks after the Oregon-bound train had pulled out from Independence, Missouri, Stella had dressed and acted like a man. She'd joined hunting parties, worked as hard as any man in their company.

But right now, she was as pale as a brand-new handkerchief. Her eyes were glassy.

Collin had his back to Alice, but she could guess just how his brows wrinkled in concern.

"Why don't you lie down for a bit? I'll fetch Maddie and she can check you over."

Collin's left hand cupped Stella's elbow. His wife leaned into him, her body language showing relief as his arm slid around her waist.

Alice wrung out the pair of pants with a mite too much force and splattered water on her skirt.

"You need any help?"

Coop, Collin's twin and Alice's youngest brother, appeared from outside the ring of wagons, coffee cup in hand, and moved to squat next to her.

Alice used the back of her wrist to wipe her brow, that one strand of hair still tickling her nose.

"I'll manage," she murmured.

She flipped the next item—the last one, thank the Lord—into the sudsy water and stole the coffee cup right out of her brother's hand.

"Hey." His protest was weak. Almost as weak as the coffee. Alice made a face and handed him back the cup.

She plunged her hands into the water, swirling the shirt to soak it.

Coop nodded to Collin and Stella. "Think she's in the family way?"

Alice's eyes darted to where Collin had his arm around his wife. Something hot and prickly lodged behind her sternum. She pulled the sopping shirt out of the water and began rubbing it over the washboard. Drops of water scattered everywhere. Coop's brows went up.

"It's early," she muttered to the board. Collin and Stella had only been married a few weeks, after he'd discovered her true identity and they'd fallen for each other.

"She's been poorly the last couple mornings," Coop said.

Alice shook her head. "She could've eaten something that didn't agree with her."

The first two weeks on the trail, Alice's stomach had been off. She'd blamed food, cooked over a campfire. But maybe it was more than that. Alice's entire life had been upended to take this journey west.

"Blech."

She glanced up at Coop's groan and caught Collin's quick peck against Stella's lips.

"Now I'm the one feeling ill," Coop muttered.

Alice's stomach had knotted at the affectionate gesture. She didn't begrudge her brother his happiness. Or Leo, her older brother, either. Even their half-brothers, August and Owen Mason, had found happiness on the wagon train.

Alice was happy for all of them. She liked their wives—even Rachel, who'd been an acquired taste. But Alice had thought she would be the first one in their family to settle down. To marry. To have children.

She'd been horribly wrong.

It had to be ironic that Robert Braddock chose that moment to cross between two campfires on the far side of the circled wagons.

The man was tall, broad-shouldered. His hat had once been white, but it was stained and dented now. His fancy duds hadn't fared well on the trail, either. She saw the hole—unpatched—in the knee of his pants. The old Alice, the one who'd still had dreams, would've worried that he wasn't eating, or taking care of himself.

He wasn't looking her direction.

She was a foolish girl to give him even one moment of her thoughts.

Just before she steeled herself to look away, Alice saw his hand flex at his side.

No. His thumb and forefinger formed a circle, other fingers spread wide.

He wanted to meet.

It was their special signal. Or it had been, once upon a time.

Her knuckles scraped against the washboard. She gasped and looked down at the same time. Pulling her stinging hand out of the tub. Her knuckles were raw and pink.

"What happened?" Coop asked.

"Wasn't paying attention."

She'd let herself be distracted by Braddock. Something hot burned behind her nose and she flared her nostrils, afraid of the questions if a tear slipped free.

Or maybe afraid to give in to the emotions. She stuffed them down where they belonged, in a dark box deep inside her. A coffin.

She wouldn't meet him again. Not ever.

When she turned her head sharply, so that Braddock wasn't even in her line of sight, she got a whiff of whiskey.

Surely that wasn't coming from her brother.

She squinted at Coop, grateful for the reprieve, even if it meant focusing on another problem.

"Give me your shirt," she demanded.

Coop instantly looked as if he would refuse.

"There's a clean one in the wagon," she said. "You've been wearing that one for three days."

He begrudgingly put down his coffee cup and unbuttoned the top of his shirt before he reached behind him and pulled the entire thing over his head. She snatched it from his hands before he could dunk it in the water. Pressed it to her face and breathed in deeply.

The whiskey scent was faint, barely noticeable. Was he imbibing again?

Coop watched her with stormy eyes, surely realizing what she'd done.

She dunked the shirt into the water, unapologetic.

Her brother had promised that he would stop drinking. He'd given his word the last time she'd caught him with a silver flask in his hand.

But he'd made other promises before. Disappointment sat bitter in her throat.

Footsteps approached. She glanced up.

Braddock, only feet away.

Alice stood on shaky legs, aware of Coop as he straightened beside her. Her brother was already bristling.

"I need to talk to you." Braddock stared right at her as he said the words.

"Go away," Coop said.

Had he even noticed how Braddock looked at her?

"If you won't come to me?—"

Now Alice felt the weight of Coop's glance between her and Braddock. She didn't look at her brother, though she couldn't hold Braddock's gaze either.

"She's got nothing to say to you."

At Coop's words, Braddock looked at him for the first time. "I'm not talking to you." The disdain in his voice was clear, an echo of what she'd heard months ago, when Braddock had spoken other words.

Alice looked over her shoulder, but Collin and Stella were gone.

Coop took a step toward Braddock, putting himself in arms' reach. "You stay away from my sister," he growled.

"Maybe you should stay away from her," Braddock said. "You're the reason she's out here working herself into a shadow?—"

Coop swung at him.

Braddock must've seen the punch coming, because he moved to the side. The punch connected with his shoulder instead of his face. He threw himself at Coop, taking a blow to his side. Braddock grunted.

"Stop it!" Alice cried. Fighting wasn't allowed in the company, and Coop had been in enough trouble on the early days of their journey.

Braddock threw an awkward elbow and Coop retaliated with a shove that sent Braddock stumbling back two steps. His hat fell off and his hair was tousled.

"That's enough." Alice's voice trembled. Did either of them even hear her? They stared at each other like two dogs about to pounce.

"Come on," Coop motioned Braddock toward him. "You're a lousy fighter. I'll teach you how to take a whooping."

She'd seen that look of determination on Braddock's face before.

"Stop it, Coop," she demanded.

But Braddock had already stepped toward her brother.

She jumped forward and grabbed for Coop's left arm. He must've seen her from the corner of his eye because he gave a shove—and it sent her sprawling.

For a fractured second, Coop turned to look at her with shock and remorse.

It was just long enough for Braddock to roar and swing—and connect with Coop's jaw.

Her brother put his hands on his knees for a brief moment and then rounded on Braddock, punching his face.

Alice heard the smack of Coop's fist on flesh as she scrambled to her feet.

Again and again Coop struck.

Braddock had been knocked to the ground, but that didn't stop Coop.

Alice shrieked for her brother to let up, but just before she jumped on his back to force him, another voice called out, "Coop!"

Leo.

For a prolonged moment, she thought Coop would keep beating on Braddock, but he pulled back. Alice hadn't realized she was crying until she pressed her hands to her cheeks and they came away wet.

Braddock lay prone on the ground as Leo dragged Coop away. Blood poured from the lip of the man she'd once loved. He clutched his stomach.

Part of her wanted to help him. But she saw Leo's furious look and the red scrape blooming on Coop's jaw and remembered she'd promised herself never to speak to Braddock again.

She turned and left.

What if we are lost out here?

The woman's words plopped into the center of the man's mind, landing and then rippling like a rock tossed in a calm pond.

"If we are lost, then someone will come looking for us." His words emerged with more calm than he felt.

Ten lost .

The words had been written at the top of one of the last pages of the book he'd flipped through. He didn't know what they meant, only the sinking feeling that had come over him when he'd read the words.

Ten cows?

Ten children?

Ten days?

Surely they hadn't been out here alone for ten days.

"Do you really think someone is looking for us?" Her voice held a trembling hope.

He hated to quash it. "I don't know. I'd like to figure out what happened?—"

"How can we, if we can't remember anything? We don't even know our own names."

He motioned to the cold ashes. "We can look for clues, try to think backward and deduce what happened. It might help us figure out where we are and who might be looking for us."

He circled the fire, which sent him in her direction. He was trying hard to ignore the pounding headache at the base of his skull and almost missed the way she shifted at his movement. Like she was frightened of him. He didn't miss the calculating way she looked at him, the intelligence shining in her eyes.

"I'm going to walk around in circles small to large," he explained.

"I'll go down to the river." She cleared her throat when her voice emerged small. "See what I can find there."

He didn't miss the look she sent over her shoulder as she marched away.

It couldn't be more clear that she didn't trust him. The more he pushed his brain for some clear information, other than the general sense of familiarity and warmth toward her, he got only a blank emptiness.

He widened his circles, constantly scanning the ground and bushes and trees. Looking for anything that might help him figure out what was going on. A hoof print. Leaves or grass disturbed.

There.

Beneath the place where he'd removed his—his?—slicker from the tree branch, a pocketknife lay on the ground. He slipped it into his pocket. It'd probably fallen from the coat. It was a little thing, but the tool could prove helpful.

The man's stomach rumbled uneasily. He couldn't quite tell whether he was hungry or sick.

Another circle revealed a mess of vomit not far from where the man had woken on the ground. He'd been sick, then. He squatted to examine it more closely. He used a twig from the ground nearby to shift some of the mess. Those looked like masticated berries?—

He heard the rustle of the woman's skirt as she moved through the brush. She was yards away now, though not at the river's edge yet.

She bent to reach for something, knee-height. Leaves on a bush rattled and some instinct screamed at him as he watched her considering something she'd plucked from the bush.

He stood and jogged several feet in her direction as her hand moved toward her mouth.

"Don't eat that!" He put more force behind the words than he intended and she jumped, something spilling from her hands.

As he neared, he saw the small purple berries rolling on the leaf-strewn ground.

The woman's eyes were large in her face, and she backed up a step as he approached. He stopped, not wanting to frighten her worse than he already had.

"Something made us sick," he told her. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder where he'd left the vomit behind. "There are berries, pieces of them, in the—the sick."

Her face had lost some of its color. "They look like blueberries, don't they? Surely a berry wouldn't have poisoned us..."

He shook his head. His stomach ached in some remembered warning. "Don't eat the berries. Maybe your belly is as empty as mine, but we can't risk falling sick out here—again." It hadn't hit him until just this moment how vulnerable he'd been—they'd been?—lying out in the open. In broad daylight.

What if someone with nefarious intentions had stumbled on them? What if a wild animal had come sniffing?

She opened her mouth, and he knew that she was on the verge of arguing with him.

"Don't." The command in his voice was audible, and even though he'd meant only to protect her, she snapped her mouth closed and her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

But she left the bush behind and moved toward the river.

He kept one eye on her as he resumed his search in ever-widening circles.

When he reached the bank of the river, a good distance from where she stood, he began to put the pieces together.

Upstream, the water rushed. Here in this bend, it pooled deeply, but the banks widened just beyond.

There were cuts in the mud, dry summer grass trampled and smaller bushes dismantled. Like someone—or two someones—desperate to escape the river had pulled themselves out of the water as quickly as possible. The large spots of flattened grass might indicate they'd laid there for a long time. Recovering?

He looked upstream where rapids flowed with white foam. The dangerous rocks, the fast-moving water. It'd be easy to get caught on something underwater and drown.

For a moment, his mind pictured a fragment of swirling water choking him, dragging him by the boots.

He blinked and the image was gone. Was it real? Something he'd experienced? Or a figment of his imagination?

If they'd been swept away by the river, it was a miracle they'd survived.

He moved from the river's edge in a slow circuit back to where the campfire had been. Caught sight of two or three broken twigs where the two of them might've brushed against a bush or tree while they'd walked.

There was nothing else. No hoof print. No boot prints that didn't match his or her dainty footprint.

Thirst drove him back to the river, though he kept to the shallows. She sat on a wide, flat rock, worrying one corner of her apron between her fingers while sunshine bathed her head and shoulders.

He squatted and brought water to his mouth in cupped hands. The moment it hit his empty stomach, the water threatened to come right back up. He breathed deeply through his nose and finally, his stomach settled.

He stayed in his squat, eyes on the water, as his disjointed thoughts tumbled. Then he pulled the little book from his pocket and untied it.

He flipped through the pages more slowly this time. Names of places, number of miles. Some notes on the landscape or game animals. At the bottom corner of one page was a sketch of a wild bird. A grouse, his memory supplied.

It was no help. Not unless he could remember what the names meant. Where was he going?

Or maybe this wasn't even his book.

He tied it closed and put it in his pocket. When his fingers brushed against the knife, he pulled it out of his pocket. Turned it over in his hands.

The initials H.T. had been carved into the handle.

"What's that?" she called out.

"Knife. I found it where the slicker was hanging. It's got a set of initials on it."

She wrinkled her nose when he told her what they were.

"It was too much to hope that you'd recognize if they belonged to me," he said.

"Should I call you H?"

He shrugged. "I don't even know whether it's my coat. My knife."

She stayed on her rock, the sparkling water sending rays of light shining off her skin in reflection. "Is there anything we do know?"

He told her his best guess: that they'd been swept downstream, that they'd tried to dry off by the fire and eaten berries at some point.

Her shoulders straightened. "If we were swept downstream, does that mean we could follow the river back... somewhere?"

He straightened and rubbed his forehead beneath his hat.

"The safest thing to do is to stay where we are," he said. "And wait to be found."

She frowned so big he could see it from where he stood.

"That doesn't feel very safe." Her words were barely audible over the babbling water flowing over stones. She pressed one hand against her stomach. Was she having the same hunger pangs he was?

They needed sustenance.

Run!

That voice in his head echoed again. Was it a child's voice? Without any context, he couldn't be certain.

Unease swamped him. They needed shelter. They needed help. But he caught another wary gaze from the woman.

They wouldn't survive out here without trusting each other.

The woman felt another shiver of awareness from where she knelt over the carefully constructed pile of fine twigs and some thin, dry grasses the man had provided. He wasn't trying to be quiet as he dragged several branches through the woods to construct a shelter not far away. He'd collected several larger tree branches and broken off the twigs. Now he was forming a semi-circle around a tree with the branches, though he'd only made one partial wall so far.

He didn't speak or glance her way as he upended one of the branches he'd dragged near and added it to the growing shelter. She wished she knew whether his silence was normal. Or anything about him.

He'd startled her on his first trip back to the tree. He'd been carrying the limbs and she didn't know how a man so big could walk so quietly. She'd been bent over her pile of twigs, trying to ignite a spark when he'd seemed to have come out of nowhere.

She wasn't proud of it, but she'd shrieked in terror.

There was no mistaking the look of hurt he'd sent her before he'd carefully blanked his expression.

He'd made several more trips since, being noisy and dragging branches everywhere.

The sun was setting, hidden by a ridge beyond the river. It wasn't dark yet, but the light was fading fast. Urgency spurred her on as she handled the stick her companion had smoothed out with his knife before creating a pointed end. He'd carved a rough bowl from a flat piece of bark and left her with both pieces. Now she fitted the pointed end into the bowl and placed both hands flat together with the stick between them.

Familiarity crept over her at the motion and something, not quite a memory, rose up inside of her. Slowly, she rolled her hands back and forth so that the stick rotated between them.

She kept at it for several moments, a creeping feeling telling her this was right.

When she removed the pointed stick and touched one finger inside the bowl, it was warm enough that she jerked her finger back.

Instinct had her gathering a pinch of the dried grasses and adding it to the bowl. She put the stick back and twisted it more. Faster.

When a tiny spark glowed, she dropped the stick and bent low to the ground to blow on it—and blew hard enough that the grass flew out of the bowl. By the time it hit the ground, the spark had gone out.

But she'd made one spark. She could make another.

She was placing a new bit of grass carefully in the bowl when the man dragged another set of branches into sight.

"I know this." Excitement made her slightly careless as she tossed the words toward him. "I've done this before. Made a fire just like this."

She saw his half smile as he fitted the branch into place. "That's lucky for us. I figured you for a bright woman."

She stalled out, holding on to the pointed stick, when she got a good look at his shelter.

"It's smaller than I thought," she murmured.

He pushed the top of the branch into place, somehow weaving it between two others from the opposite side. She didn't see how the entire thing didn't come tumbling down.

The space between the bottom of the branches, the bottom of the cone, and the base of the tree was narrow. Certainly not big enough for both of them to fit without touching.

Her stomach took a tumble.

"I'll sleep outside. By the fire." His words were calm and untroubled.

She felt the brush of the breeze against her cheek, how cool it'd become as the sun disappeared behind the horizon.

"Do you think we belong together?" She hadn't meant to blurt out the words, but the set of his shoulders and the way he'd turned his face away had affected her somehow.

He looked back at her in surprise, his eyes intent and searching. She dropped her gaze. "I-I mean... do you think we know each other. Since we're?—"

"The only two people within several miles?" There was a hint of humor to his words and it eased the discomfort, allowed her shoulders to drop and relax.

"There's a good chance we know each other," he said the words easily. "We must've been traveling together if we both got swept away at the same time."

Traveling together.

Her hands trembled and she couldn't quite hold his gaze, but she raised her chin. "Then do you think... do you think we're married?"

She hadn't been able to think of anything else since he'd blurted out the idea about a family Bible.

Something flitted across his expression, so quickly she couldn't read it in the fading light.

"It'd be a blessing to be married to someone as beautiful and resourceful as you." For a stark second, it seemed as if the words had surprised him. They certainly had surprised her.

And then he ducked his head and kept working with the shelter. He cleared his throat. "It seems likely we should be. To be so far from any town, on our own..."

She'd had the thought more than once during the afternoon. If only she could remember!

He moved a step toward her and she couldn't keep her gaze from jumping up to clash with his dark eyes. He stopped. Sighed. Knocked his hat off with one hand while he ran the other over his closely-cropped hair.

"Whatever we are to each other, you're safe with me."

She had hurt him with her distrust.

"I believe you." The words slipped from her tongue before she'd really thought them through, but she meant them. The realization of how deeply she meant them came after they were spoken.

Something that might be relief flickered through his eyes. "You need help with that?"

She shook her head.

"I figure two more loads and your shelter will be the best it can be for tonight."

The air felt different between them with his statement and her acceptance.

She worked with the pointed stick once more, this time keeping her excitement in check until she had a big, bright, glowing spark that ate away at the bark-fluff.

She carried it in cupped hands to the little patch of twigs and more fluff and within moments, a tiny flame flared to life.

Whatever knowledge was hiding behind the blank darkness of her memory, it prodded her to slowly feed bigger and bigger sticks until she had a merry fire crackling just as the man stood from where he'd knelt as he layered evergreen branches over the back of the shelter.

"Good work," he praised.

She sat back on her heels as warmth from the fire licked her face and neck.

When the man came close and stretched out his hand in offer, she took it. He steadied her as she stood. The clasp of his hand over hers was warm and calloused. She raised her eyes to meet his gaze and for a breathless moment, she stood close enough to embrace him.

He was the one who stepped back. He dropped her hand and for a moment, she missed his warm touch.

"If you want, I can bring some boughs for the ground inside."

She glanced at the space inside the shelter. "Thank you, H."

Surprise flitted across his expression.

She shifted her feet. "I hope it's all right?—"

He nodded. "It works. But what should I call you?"

She reached for a name. Anything. But her mind was all darkness and shadows. She shrugged, wrapping her arms around her middle as the helpless, panicky feeling returned.

"Brown-Eyes will have to do for now," he murmured.

She wrinkled her nose. "You have brown eyes, too."

One corner of his mouth tipped. "I could simply go with Beautiful."

Heat suffused her cheeks and she ducked her head. Thankfully, her stomach gurgled, breaking the awkward silence growing between them.

His brows drew together in concern. She glanced at the weapon on his hip. "Can you hunt?"

He followed her gaze and his hand reflexively came to rest on the gun before he dropped it. "Not well, not with a revolver like this." His forehead wrinkled. "I don't know how I know it, only that I do. And there's limited ammunition. Better to save it."

Save it for what? Perhaps to alert someone, if anyone got within hearing distance?

"I've got an idea I'd like to try in the morning," he said. "There are plenty of fish in that river. Are you very attached to your apron?"

Now she was sure she was the one wearing a look of confusion. What did the two have to do with each other?

He looked slightly chagrined in the flickering firelight. "I was thinking if I cut thin strips from the ties, I could make a fishing line. Maybe carve a quick fishhook."

Fish for breakfast.

Her stomach made an audible agreement. She reached behind her to untie the apron.

There was something intimate about removing the simple outer garment. When her gaze flicked up to his, she saw his stare skitter away.

"Here." She extended it to him.

He took it from her with a nod of thanks. "I'll try to leave it so it can be repaired..."

"Maybe we can use it for a flag—surely there'll be someone to wave down tomorrow."

He nodded, but she felt a fissure of unease as his eyes traveled around their crude campsite.

What if no one came for them?