Chapter 3

Three

Hunger drove the man from where he slept fitfully on the ground between the fire and the woman's shelter. Before he left their rough camp, he stirred up the coals and added twigs and then two larger logs to the fire. He intended to bring back breakfast and the fish would taste better cooked.

He glimpsed the woman's face as he straightened from the fire, her features slack in sleep. Her beauty hit him all over again, trapping his breath in his chest.

Beautiful. He'd called her that last night. When he had, there'd been almost a… hesitation in the air between them. He didn't know what it meant.

He worked to keep his steps quiet among the decayed leaves underfoot, avoided twigs that would crack under his boots. Out in the open, the ground was dry and parched, with cracks snaking through the yellowing grass. How long had it been since it had rained?

At the river's edge, he slipped a shaking hand into his pocket to remove the slender wooden fishhook he'd whittled last night by the fire. He'd carefully separated a narrow strip of fabric from the woman's apron. He'd taken two strips and knotted them together to make it twice as long. Now he affixed the hook onto the end with a strong knot.

He was keenly aware that his body, and the woman's too, were in desperate need of sustenance. Still weak after being sick, after the energy lost from swimming in the river, surviving the rapids and cold water.

An echo of gnawing hunger swamped him. Not from his body right now, but something from the past. He forced the feeling back, walking in the growing morning sunlight until he found just the spot he wanted—a bend in the river that made for a deeper pool of slow water and sheltered by the roots of a tree that had grown up on the bank, only to find the soil beneath it slowly being washed away.

That's where the man dropped his hook.

There should be bait on his hook, sense told him. But he had none.

He waited, the apron-string line tugging against the gentle flow of water. Eventually he became aware of movement farther down the bank, then the swish of the woman's dress against the tall grasses as she approached slowly.

Sunlight glinted off the water, sending golden beams skittering across her skin. He felt a pull inside, almost enough to draw him toward her. Only the feel of the line in his hands, the hunger in his belly, kept him where he was.

Something tugged on the line.

The man's eyes flicked to the water, to the new tension on the line as it disappeared into the depths.

Another tug.

This time he yanked back, felt the weight of something thrashing on the other end of the makeshift fishing line.

He pulled in the string, hand over hand, and at the last, flipped a shimmering green and brown fish onto the bank.

It kicked and flopped, but he quickly captured it in his hands. Instinct had him hold it by the lip, squeezing tightly with his thumb as he disengaged the hook from the fish's mouth.

She joined him on the bank, squatting next to him, the fish between them.

"Here's our breakfast." He breathed the words. Felt satisfaction and another beat of urgency flow at the same time. It wasn't enough, the fish too small to feed both of them.

They needed more.

The woman's eyes sparkled like the sunlight on water. "May I try?"

H secured the fish, weighting it down with a partial log.

Her first attempt at tossing the hook and line into the water splashed wide with a ploop! and she looked to him for help. He came behind her, close enough that his nose could press into her hair if he leaned forward the slightest bit.

"Here. Like this." His right hand closed gently over her wrist and he guided her toss so that the hook dropped in the water at just the right spot.

Her head tilted, and he caught the flash of white teeth in her smile. A wisp of her hair caught in the scruff at his jaw, and he had to force himself to concentrate.

Fishing.

Food.

Survival.

"Keep a bit of tension in the line," he told her quietly.

Her head turned—so slightly—as if she felt the brush of his words on her cheek. But she didn't shy away. From him or his touch. Whatever distrust she'd held for him yesterday, it seemed to have gone with the rising of the sun.

A new noise came to him over the sound of the burbling river.

She was humming.

She did that a lot.

He couldn't say how he knew, only that he did.

A flash of the sketches in the notebook popped into his mind. There'd been a small bird on several pages, in a corner or along the inside margin.

A song sparrow.

Some tenuous connection to her clicked into place. Sparrow .

It wasn't a name, but somehow it fit.

Light filtered through the leaves, creating patterns on the ground around them. Something stirred inside his mind.

"I remember fishing," he murmured. She didn't look at him, but he had the sense that she was listening.

He was conscious of what had happened yesterday when he'd tried to grasp on to the memory. This time, he let the images float there in his mind, not pushing. Not chasing after them.

"Not exactly like this," he said the words barely above a whisper. "We had... poles, I think."

His memories painted images of soft light and trees, leaves, a little creek. The scent of mud, brown and rich and fragrant with decay came strongly, a visceral memory.

"By yourself?" Her whisper barely registered.

"No." Childish laughter rang in his head. "With my brother. And my father."

He could see his father's serious expression. Pa was always serious. The memory brought on a tender feeling of affection that was all-encompassing. The knowledge settled somewhere deep inside the man. Pa. And Peter.

"We must've fished for hours," he told her. "Until the sun began to go down and our damp clothes became unbearable."

"My father taught me to clean a fish." The memory settled over him as he told it. His pa's scarred hands, patient explanation. The knowledge of what he must do to get their breakfast ready. "I can still remember the taste of it, breaded and coming out of that frying pan on our old stove."

His tongue almost felt singed anew with the memory of the hot, buttery goodness.

His stomach rumbled loudly, breaking him out of the hazy thoughts. They drifted away like dander on a fierce spring breeze and he felt the loss keenly.

"My father was a good teacher," he recalled. He felt the love and security of those moments in his memory.

"You must be just like him," she murmured.

He blinked at her words, then noticed the tension ratchet up in the end of her line.

"Pull now." He reached for her, but she had already tugged the wriggly fish up onto the bank.

She squealed a bit, danced as it flopped toward her feet.

A laugh escaped him. It sounded rusty. Why did it sound like that?

He scooped up the fish before it could flop back into the water. "Good work."

Her eyes were warm, and for a moment, another memory flashed. A woman in a beautiful pale pink dress, flowers clutched against her midsection. A feeling of love so overwhelming that he caught his breath in the present moment.

One blink and the memory was gone, so quickly that he realized he hadn't seen the woman's face.

A wedding. His wedding. He was sure of it.

A strong, protective urge rose up inside of him. If Sparrow was his wife, he must do everything he could to keep her safe.

Up until this moment, there'd been a vague feeling of partnership with her in this strange world he'd woken up in—a world of no memories. Something had broken free along with the memory of his pa.

But this new feeling was different. A threat.

Run!

The shifting currents beneath the water, the rustling in the grass, the shadows amongst the woods. All of them seemed menacing.

He'd told her yesterday that staying in place would mean their best chance of being found, being rescued, but was that true? They'd had success fishing this morning, but what if tomorrow the fish didn't bite?

Clouds drifted together on the far horizon, pushed by the brisk breeze. For a fraction of a second, a thought skittered through his mind that a storm was coming.

He couldn't know that.

But the sense of unease didn't lift.

Ten lost.

Ten days lost?

Was it eleven now? Or twelve, or maybe even thirteen? He didn't know how much time had been taken by the sickness and memory loss that plagued them. What if the help he hoped was coming, didn't exist?

Ten days lost in the wilderness was far too many. If no one was looking for them, he was putting both of them in danger by insisting they stay put.

He couldn't look at her as she tossed the hook back into the water, as he knelt over the two fish with his pocketknife, thankful that soon the hunger pangs in his belly would be satisfied.

What was the right decision? He wished he knew.

The woman sat back from the campfire, warm and full. She licked the grease of the fish from her fingers. H had threaded them onto a slender stick and cooked them over the fire.

She should've been embarrassed at how she'd devoured it before it had even cooled—like she was a wild animal. Or half-starved, which was more accurate.

That had been hours ago. Even though they'd had fish for breakfast too, she'd never been more happy to eat the same food for two meals in a row.

H sat across the fire, staring into the flames as if deep in thought. She had a passing feeling that this wasn't the first time she'd seen him pensive.

After breakfast, he'd left their camp to go scouting while she'd stayed behind. His departure had unsettled her. The quietness had seemed threatening without him near, so she'd busied herself with hunting for more sticks and branches to feed the fire.

He'd raised one eyebrow when he'd returned to camp, but before a defensive word could escape her lips, he'd smiled. Asked whether she'd hummed the entire time she'd gathered wood.

She hadn't known how to answer that. She'd noticed the songs from inside her, though most of the words still eluded her. The humming had begun unconsciously.

Now the warmth of the fire and the sun overhead made her feel almost drowsy. She roused herself when she felt her head bob with sleep. Sat up straighter. Caught the grin twitching his lips.

But when he spoke, he was serious. "You should nap," he said. "It's difficult to sleep through the night on the hard ground. And we may need to leave our camp behind in the morning."

Leave camp?

"Why?" She didn't mean for the word to emerge breathless and weak.

He glanced to the side, briefly giving her his profile. A muscle ticked in his jaw. "I've been thinking on it all morning. We've only got this crude shelter. No blankets. No tools. It's dangerous for us to stay here."

How could that be? She'd learned the crude path to the river. Recognized the shape of the trees as she'd searched the woods for downed trees and branches for their fire. She'd begun to feel safe as the surrounding area had become more familiar.

He seemed to read the direction of her thoughts. His eyes made a circuit of their surroundings, too.

"There's a rugged beauty to it, isn't there?" he asked gently. "A wildness that calls to me." He paused. "But what if it storms? Your shelter isn't waterproof."

And he hadn't slept under any shelter at all, last night.

"What if a wild animal approaches?"

She resisted the urge to remind him of the gun at his hip. He'd told her yesterday that he had only the bullets inside it. There were no more once the ammunition ran out.

"What if someone comes looking for us?" she asked. Her eyes roved the small shelter, the fire, the broken branches just beyond H.

"There's been no sign of anyone today. It would help if we could remember how many days since we've been out here."

"You remembered something this morning." Her argument only made him shift his legs, extending one long leg parallel to the fire.

"Not anything helpful to us."

Was it her imagination, or did he seem cagey as he answered, his gaze flitting to the side.

"Our memories may come back." She'd held onto that thought since she'd woken this morning.

"What if they don't?" he asked. "What if the fish aren't biting tomorrow?"

She could still feel the echoes of the roaring hunger, a hunger so deep she'd felt it in her bones. She didn't want to starve out here.

"And we've no medicine," he said. "The thing that frightens me most is imagining us eating something and getting bad sick again—or getting cut and having an infection."

He was right.

She knew he was right.

But some visceral need deep inside said not to leave the safety of what she knew. She knew this place now. Knew how to survive in the most basic sense, even if H had brought up that the fish, their source of food, might not be there forever.

"We'll go together," he said. "We can craft a torch, take the fire with us."

But they didn't even know where they were going.

She breathed in deeply as panic tried to swamp her. "I don't want to go," she admitted. "I'm afraid."

The words shook something loose inside her mind. A memory that flashed quickly. A woman's—her mam's?—face, a flash of a smile meant to reassure, but the worried eyes expressed everything.

"We must keep our chins up," the memory Mam said. The arm she put around the little girl's shoulder felt so real, as if she could feel it right now. "I've learned to make the best of every circumstance, and so must you."

The memory danced away, leaving the woman shaken by the feeling of familiar warmth, the scent of baking bread.

"What's the matter?" H asked. He'd shifted to his haunches and edged around the fire. He stopped within touching distance, hands on his knees. One hand had risen, as if he was reaching for her, but he hesitated.

The woman wiped one hand over her cheek, surprised when it came away dry after the bout of emotion in the memory. "I think I remembered something, too."

She didn't think about it, didn't pause, just reached out and grabbed his hand. His longer fingers closed over her smaller ones, warmth from his skin enveloping her. For a moment, she felt a swoop in her stomach, like swinging too high.

At certain moments, H seemed so familiar to her. He'd reached for her, and she'd done what had felt right. But something about this connection, the intimacy of holding hands, seemed completely new, foreign.

And yet, still right.

His gaze held hers. She felt as if she could read the same feelings in his eyes.

"What did you remember?" he prompted.

She shook her head, breaking their gaze and somehow thankful for the relief of it. "Nothing helpful. A moment with... I think, my mam. Telling me that I must learn to make the best of my circumstances." With her free hand, she rubbed the sudden ache in her forehead just above the bridge of her nose. "I can't even remember what happened to prompt the words."

His big hand squeezed hers gently. "Sound advice."

"But?"

He shook his head slightly. "We still can't stay here."

Everything he said made logical sense. She was the one out of step.

The knot of fear in her belly tightened. "What if we could help get ourselves found?"

His gaze questioned her.

"What if we took our fire out in the open," she suggested. Her words came faster as the thoughts tumbled into place. "And built it as big as we can—use every piece of wood we find."

"Create a tower of smoke," he finished. He let go of her hand to rub his hand at his jaw, considering.

Her heart flew around in her chest. If there were others looking for her and H, the smoke could signal their location.

"It's a brilliant idea, Sparrow."

She wrinkled her brows.

He looked slightly chagrined as he admitted, "Ever since I heard you humming this morning, I've been calling you that in my head."

Sparrow.

A sparrow sang outside the tiny childhood bedroom she'd shared with her mam and brother, its beautiful trill coming just before dawn every morning. The knowledge emerged inside her, right and true.

"If you mind the nickname, I won't?—"

"I don't mind." Suddenly shy, she couldn't quite look at him as she pushed up to stand.

He followed, and she realized, not for the first time, how tall and broad he was.

"I'll scout out a place on the riverbank where we can put your bonfire," he said.

She nodded without looking at him. "I'll start gathering more wood."

"You shouldn't wear yourself out," he warned. "If no one comes looking for us, we should still plan to leave in the morning."

Her heart sank. If someone did come, it would change things. Whoever might be looking for them surely knew their names, their identities.

But she and H wouldn't stay in this little clearing, no matter what happened.

The knot in her stomach remained. The future was unclear, and she didn't like it.

"You'll want to apply the salve in the morning and before you go to bed at night."

Doc Goodwin hovered just outside the tent, listening to the advice delivered in sweet tones. He'd been with this particular company for nearly a week—a transplant after leaving an eastbound wagon train that had suffered from bad leadership—and had yet to see one patient.

All because of the young lady inside that tent.

"Thank you, Miss Maddie," an older, feminine voice said.

The tent flap was thrown back and what must be Miss Maddie emerged.

She was looking down, maybe at the wicker basket she held over one arm, and didn't see him. The tent flap came down behind her, and despite his best intentions to see inside, he didn't get a glimpse of the patient.

He followed her for a few feet before irritation had him spewing, "Excuse me."

She stopped, but was rifling through her basket and didn't look up. Around them, Tremblay's camp was quiet. No one seemed to know what to do without their wagon master or clear directives from the captains.

Doc took a step closer. "I've been hoping to meet you," he said. "I understand you've?—"

She finally looked up, her bonnet slipping back so that he had a clear view of her face.

She was younger than he'd thought—much younger than his thirty-six years. Her unlined face and guileless eyes put her age anywhere from nineteen to twenty-one.

But it was her beauty that hit him like a blow to the kidney. The spray of freckles across her pert nose, the intelligence in her blue eyes framed with sooty lashes that could tease or flirt. Beneath the bonnet, hair the color of fire. Strands had come loose somewhere along the way and framed a graceful jaw.

His breath lodged in his chest. One blink and shame flowed through him, hot and slow like a river of lava he'd once read about in a geology textbook. His lips firmed in disdain at himself, even as he saw the flicker of recognition and the minute narrowing of her eyes.

He cleared his throat, blamed a night of tossing and turning in his bedroll for the discombobulation. "I'm Dr. Jason Goodwin. Folks call me Doc. I thought it was time we met."

Jason .

What had possessed him to introduce himself that way? It was easier to think of himself as Doc, to lean into his occupation. His late wife, Marie, had been the only one who used his given name. Jason was gone. The same way she was.

The young woman's smile, when it came, was tight. "Maddie Fairfax."

She stuck out her hand and it took a beat too long for his sluggish brain to realize she meant to shake his hand like a man might.

A flush rose high on his cheeks as his hand enveloped hers. The slight feel of her fingers in his, the brush of her palm. It was too much. He dropped her hand like a burning coal.

Resisting the urge to clear his throat again—was he having an allergic reaction to the pollen of some nearby plant?—he jerked his thumb toward the tent she'd only just vacated. "Perhaps I should examine the patient."

"Why?" Her expression showed nothing more than simple curiosity, but he heard wary tones in her voice.

"I've heard good reports about how helpful you've been to the company thus far..."

She didn't smile. Simply waited.

"But I'm a doctor by profession."

Her eyes cut to the tent and back to him. When she sidled closer, he found himself holding his breath.

"Mrs. Barrigan asked for me." She said the words with a smile that was somehow void of warmth. "As you said, I've formed a rapport with the travelers in this company. They know me."

She threw out the last words like a challenge. Her eyes flashed and her chin came up. Something in his gut twisted in response.

"And where did you gain your medical degree?" Now his words threw a gauntlet. "A woman's college? Apprenticing with a professional doctor?"

The flicker of unease passed behind her eyes.

"Ah. You don't have one." He kept his tone matter-of-fact. "I'm sure you mean well, Miss, but I've seen firsthand how home remedies and old wives tales can do more harm than good. The trail itself is dangerous enough."

He saw the protest rise to her lips and jumped in before she could give it voice. "Mrs. Mason almost died from an infection," he told her. "She would've died had it not been for my medicine." He patted the black bag in his left hand.

It was true. God knew how close it had been, the number of prayers Doc and Owen, Rachel's husband, had sent heavenward. It had been a near thing.

Rachel was fully recovered now, and Doc had joined this westbound train. Two hundred and twelve souls. Several of the women were carrying babies in their wombs. Doc was needed here, along with his real medicine, not herbs.

"Miss Maddie, Miss Maddie!"

She turned away first, but Doc was right on her heels as a boy no older than ten reached them. He bent over, hands on his knees, as he tried to catch his breath.

Maddie knelt at his side, one hand going to his shoulder. "What's the matter?"

"Tommy's stitches came loose."

Tears streamed down the boy's cheeks as the words tumbled out. He wiped his face with one grubby hand, smearing dirt through the tears.

Doc went on alert. Opened stitches meant an open wound. If infection set in, it could be deadly. "Where is this patient?" Doc asked.

The boy sniffled and glanced from Maddie to Doc.

"It's all right, Alex," she said.

Doc had to look away from where her hand soothed the boy.

"He's in our wagon." Alex pointed across the clearing. "Miss Maddie, ya gotta stitch him back up."

Doc stepped closer and bent to speak to the boy. "I think it would be prudent if I went with you and put in the stitches."

Alex looked tearfully at him, suspicion evident. "Who're you?"

"This is Doc," Maddie said gently. "He's got a fancy medical degree from back East."

He bristled. She didn't have to put it that way.

He found his smile turning into more of a grimace. "I've performed countless surgeries and assisted in many more. I'm certain I can put in stitches that will stay closed for your patient."

He caught Maddie's narrowed eyes as she stood up and motioned Doc across the clearing. "By all means."

The boy still looked between them, though his eyes had taken on a new shine. "You're a real doctor?"

He heard the quiet exhale but didn't glance at Maddie. "I am."

"C'mon!"

Doc followed the boy at a jog that got his heart pumping. This was why he'd joined this wagon train—and the one before it. People needed him. Doing good works was the only thing that helped erase the grief. Otherwise, it threatened to overwhelm him.

He was conscious of Maddie trailing behind. He spoke over his shoulder, though he didn't let himself look at her. "I'm certain I won't need assistance."

But she followed them anyway.

Alex climbed into the wagon, throwing out, "You better wait there. Ma doesn't like anyone tracking mud in our wagon."

Doc started to protest, but Maddie stayed him with a hand on his forearm.

Her touch burned like a brand and he jerked away from her. "If you please."

He saw what might've been a flash of hurt before her expression blanked.

The wagon jostled. It was easier to slip into his bedside persona than to think about the slight girl at his side. He set his bag on the ground and opened it, pulling out his fine suture needle. He had his catgut in hand when Alex edged out of the wagon and dropped to the ground with a small brown dog in his arms.

The boy's eyes were hopeful as he presented the squirming ball of fur to Doc. "This is Tommy. He don't like strangers much."

The little dog growled at Doc, baring its teeth.

"This." A breath. "Is Tommy?"

He could see Maddie from the corner of his vision. She seemed to be biting her bottom lip. To keep a smile from blooming?

She could've warned him.

Alex continued waiting with that hopeful look on his face. He held the dog securely and presented one front paw, where a gash stood out on the dog's forearm. The fur had been shaved away and clean black stitches were visible, at least where they hadn't been torn out by doggy teeth.

"Would you like me to take over for you?" Maddie asked sweetly. "I'm sure such a prestigious doctor such as yourself has other important tasks to look after."

Anger stirred at her trickery. She'd been making a fool of him all along. But Doc was conscious of the boy watching him. He'd been a boy once, with a dog that had followed him around day and night, slept at the end of his bed.

Doc shook his head. He wouldn't let her win. "I'll be happy to stitch him up."

He had needle and thread in hand so he carefully closed up the wound with finger and thumb, avoiding those canine teeth. He couldn't help but examine the stitches still intact.

"Miss Maddie does fine stitching, don't she?" Alex asked.

"They are good sutures," he said reluctantly.

But when he glanced up, Maddie was already gone.