Chapter 6

Six

With a growing sense of danger and urgency, H pulled the two of them out of their alcove and into the rain before Sparrow was ready. Three steps out into the torrential downpour and water rushed over H's boots in rills down the incline. Suddenly, he felt an echo of the blow the man had landed on his ear.

For a moment, all he saw was an image of an older woman—his ma?—hurrying down a road at twilight, turning to send a tense smile over her shoulder at him. It only lasted for a second before his senses returned and he was back in the dark and pouring rain.

"Where are we going?" Sparrow asked.

H put one hand to his head, where slow beats of pain pulsed. "Away from here."

She was tucked up to his side and he felt her tip her head as if to look at him. "What's wrong? Did you get hit?"

"I'm fine for now."

But at that moment, another memory hit with the force of a sucker punch straight to his gut and he stumbled over some protruding object on the ground.

Her hands steadied him, but he was bigger than her, heavier. He kept his feet, but barely.

"H!" The worry in her voice twisted his gut, but he soldiered on.

"We've got to put some distance between us and that man." H's words had a bit of a groan to them.

"We will. Just slow down."

He felt the heat of her palm against his stomach, through his sodden shirt. It was a point to anchor himself as memories swirled over him. He barely bit back a cry. Pressed his palm to his forehead.

"What is it?" Stark fear was audible in her voice.

"A memory—I think." He couldn't hold the words in, not with the moments battering him.

"My cousin Charles was my best friend. We did everything together. Sat at Ma's table to work on our reading after school. Worked in my pa's livery stable."

The rightness of the words slipped over him. He could remember the feel of Charles's arm slung over his shoulder, his teasing words as they'd walked home from school one afternoon. A fierce love rolled over H in a wave, strong enough to steal his breath.

Rain pelted his face and head but he didn't feel it. He barely registered Sparrow leading him through the darkness.

"We were... we were racing home after school one day. I can't—" He pushed back when his mind tried to steal the memory back into the darkness.

"There was something happening down the street." He saw the moments, as fractured as they must've been when he'd lived them. "Two men in a fight. A bad fight. One of them shot the other. I only had a glimpse because we were running. I was chasing Charles."

His chest began to ache as the memory unfolded further. The darkness and rain felt oppressive and foreboding.

Sparrow's arm squeezed his waist. "It's all right."

He shook his head, some dormant instinct firing. It wasn't all right. Never would be again.

"My back was turned. I don't know what happened after the gun was fired. The man who was shot tried to get on his horse, but the animal didn't like the scent of blood—that's what my pa said later. The horse bolted?—"

And Charles had chosen that moment to dart across the street.

"Charles was run down." The words emerged hoarse. He was surprised they emerged at all. His throat felt like it was on fire. Grief swamped his chest.

"Did you see it happen?"

H wished for the oblivion he'd known moments ago. It was far, far better than this.

He'd been steps behind his cousin, calling out in glee because he was catching up. Unaware of the danger, of what he was about to cause.

"Someone bumped me." He remembered the feel of bodies around, disjointed now. "I would've been right behind him—might've been run over by the horse, too."

He'd been seconds too late.

"I held him," he whispered. "Someone was screaming—I don't know who."

Charles's eyes had already been glassy and empty when H had pulled his body into him. H had begged, had prayed, had screamed when someone had brought his pa and his uncle. When he'd been torn away from Charles's body.

He felt everything he'd experienced that day, all at once. Like being doused in the driving rain, only now it was emotion drowning him.

He didn't know what to do with it. Without warning, he lifted his face to the sky and cried, "aauugghh!"

Sparrow went still beside him, simply holding him.

Charles was gone.

And it was H's fault.

"It wasn't your fault," Sparrow whispered. Had he spoken aloud? He hadn't meant to.

More memories swirled around him, rolling over him like the river water bowling over rocks. His uncle, Charles's father, angry in their kitchen, spittle flying as he spoke to H's father. H watched from a hiding place behind the kitchen doorway. His uncle drowning his sorrow in a bottle behind the livery, where he was supposed to be working. He hadn't told a soul, only went into the livery to muck stalls.

His uncle had disappeared in the bottle, becoming angry and bitter. He'd left the livery, a business he and H's father had run together for years. Had cut ties with their family. H's actions had not only brought about Charles's death but separated his uncle from their family.

"You couldn't have known that the horse would bolt," Sparrow murmured.

When had he taken her in his arms? The rain was softening, moving off—or was it? And they stood holding each other in the dark.

He could hear the flooded river nearby. How close? Or perhaps it was his pulse rushing in his ears, adrenaline fading as he'd lived through the terrible event all over again.

"I should've stopped him," H said. A burst of speed, a hand to pull Charles back.

"You were a child. It was a horrible accident."

But her words offered no real comfort. Her cheek pressed against his jaw, her arms tight about his shoulders. His rib ached where she leaned against him.

He couldn't accept her comfort. It wasn't right, not when he'd cost his family so dearly.

"We need to go." His words were jagged, rough. He pulled away from her body but kept her hand.

The darkness seemed to have grown—it wasn't the middle of the night yet, but no sliver of moonlight made it through the cloud cover or cut through the rain. They'd only taken a few steps when the muddy ground beneath his feet gave way and he stumbled.

He caught himself before he fell, but Sparrow stumbled too. She jerked in his grip. He kept her arm but heard her soft cry.

He steadied her, feeling the way the muddy ground, softer here, gave way beneath his boots. This was a dangerous place to traverse. In the dark, he couldn't see how close they were to the water.

"Are you all right?"

She moved slightly. Taking weight off her leg?

"My ankle—it twisted wrong when I took that step. But I think it's all right."

She took a tentative step. He couldn't see her, other than a dark shape in the darkness, but he heard the soft catch of her breath.

"I can keep go?—"

He gripped her upper arm, only now catching the strength of her shivers. Her entire body shuddered with violent trembling. He tugged her into him, rubbing his hands up and down her arms.

"You're soaked through," he muttered. He'd been so caught up in his memories and grief that he hadn't registered even the most basic details about Sparrow.

"So are you."

He barely heard her words. What if he'd led them too close to the river's edge? In the darkness, it was impossible to see the terrain, and she'd gotten hurt because he hadn't been paying close enough attention.

Regret rose up in tandem with a protectiveness so fierce that it almost choked him.

"We can't light a fire, not with things this wet." He couldn't help himself. He brushed a kiss on the crown of her head. "But maybe we can find somewhere to keep the rain off."

"It doesn't feel like there's one dry inch on the earth," she said. Somehow, he heard the hint of humor in her voice. "I think we forgot to build our ark."

Her lightness tightened the cinch in his chest. He took a jagged breath.

"I'm all right to walk," she said evenly.

"I'd rather not walk into danger," he returned. "Surely there's somewhere near for us to hole up until morning."

He heard her soft noise of agreement.

But what would they do in the morning? He'd used one of his bullets. He didn't know whether the man who'd attacked him would track them, would attack again. Would he seek revenge because H's shot had connected? What if he was leading Sparrow into more and more danger?

Whatever hope he'd had to find a wagon train or a house out here was dwindling.

Sparrow was awake as the sky began to lighten.

It wasn't that the sun came up—the sky was still covered in slate gray clouds—but small details began to come into focus. That's what she noticed first.

It seemed a miracle, but H had somehow found a large, fallen log against an embankment that had created a sort of shelter. It wasn't waterproof, and it was a tight fit with both of them lying side by side. But H had insisted Sparrow be on the inside, as much out of the rain as possible. He'd crowded her against the damp earth, fallen tree behind her shoulder, and turned his back to the world outside.

They'd both lain awake for hours. Listening to the ebb and flow of the rain during the long night. She wasn't sure the rain had ever stopped.

It was still drizzling now. The quiet woods coming slowly into focus felt ethereal.

H slept on. One of his arms rested heavy over her waist and anchored her.

She was sure she had cobwebs in her hair and that she was covered in mud. What she wouldn't give for a hot bath.

She breathed deeply of peat and damp air as a memory rolled over her. Ma washing her in a round tub of warm, sudsy water. Laughing and splashing. She'd been small. Maybe five.

Memories had been slipping into place all throughout the quiet hours of the night. H had shared his terrible memory with her and been quiet ever since.

She had to wonder if whatever had caused the memory loss—the berries, as H had suggested?—was wearing off. Her memories had cascaded and ebbed but when she reached for more current ones—her wedding to H, her name—they slipped away.

H made a small noise in his throat. She held her breath, wondering whether he'd wakened.

The gray light was just enough for her to see his features, slack in sleep. The proud curve of his nose, the stubble at his jaw. The lips that had kissed her so passionately. The shadow of his lashes against his cheeks.

His name hovered on her lips, just out of reach.

But another memory overtook her with breathless grief. Herself standing at the edge of a grave, newly mounded with dirt. She must've been all of fifteen. Joseph stood beside her, silent. Holding his cap in both hands.

How was she meant to go on without her mam in her life? Mam had been a steady presence, wise and gracious and always ready with a kind word. She'd taught Sparrow how to cook. How many hours had they worked in the kitchen together over the years since Sparrow had been a wee child?

The hot knife of grief sliced through her chest as if reliving that moment.

"Chin up." Those had been her brother's words.

Her chin wobbled when she turned her gaze on him, unable to move more than her head. If she walked away, if she left, then it became real. Mam wasn't coming back. Not ever.

Joseph's eyes had been awash in tears. "Mr. Smith told me just this morning that he'll take you on as cook in Mam's place."

Sparrow's throat grew hot imagining being in that kitchen, where Mam had worked these past five years, without the woman she loved so dearly.

I can't.

But the words remained stuck behind her throat. Sparrow was afraid if she opened her mouth, only wails would emerge.

Joseph's hands flexed on his hat and then he reached out to touch her shoulder. "It's a good job, with good pay. The Smith family treats us fairly."

She knew that he meant the words to be a comfort, that she should count the job as a blessing. Without it, she would have nowhere to stay, no income.

But she didn't want the job. She wanted mam back.

Everything that had seemed true, that Mam would always be by her side, had been wrong. Sparrow didn't know how to go on, not when the ground had been torn from beneath her feet.

"Chin up."

It was a small mercy when the memory faded. She'd taken her brother's directive to heart. She'd worn a smile through those darkest days. It had taken years before any smile on her face had felt genuine. But she'd sung while she'd cooked, if only to feel Mam close.

She'd smiled and she'd poured herself into the job. And then Joseph had left her behind, as well. The memory she'd gained yesterday took on a new meaning, seeing Joseph off at the train platform.

She hadn't felt this layer of it yesterday, hadn't known how the grief of her brother leaving had choked her. How she'd hidden it behind a smile.

Her leg twitched. She felt the slide of damp fabric against her skin. She wasn't soaking wet anymore. H's body against hers had provided warmth through the night. But the damp, uncomfortable feeling remained.

Her brow furrowed as she focused on his face again. If H had left with her brother on that train, where had they gone? When had he returned? And where was Joseph now?

With the strength of returning memories, she pushed?—

And found a deluge. What felt like all of them.

Herself on the train. Leaving behind everything she'd known in the East. The rough and tumble town of Independence.

Meeting Felicity and taking charge of their wagon.

Felicity!

What had happened to her friend? Had she weathered last night's storm? She was married now. To August.

August.

Owen.

Leo.

Alice.

Each one of the travelers in their company had become a friend during the course of their journey. They'd worked together, mourned the loss of Evangeline's father. Survived a twister. A buffalo stampede.

A certainty sank deep inside her. Her friends wouldn't have stopped looking for her. They would never have left her behind.

A new anticipation shimmered. Surely with the territory she and H had covered yesterday, they must've drawn closer to the wagon train. Even if the company had moved on, unable to wait, August—the best tracker in the company—would be looking for them.

She could see the jovial, quiet man clearly in her mind's eye. Memories continued to settle and click into place.

"Abigail." The memory of August calling her name .

She gasped softly.

Abigail Fletcher. She had a name. Not Sparrow, though she had grown fond of the nickname Hollis had given her.

Hollis.

His name clicked into place as she stared at his dear face—and remembered everything.

Memories of him holding her, warming her by the fire two nights ago warred with a memory of him snapping at her to leave him be when she'd confronted him about the gaps in his memory from the head injury he'd sustained.

Worry slithered through her as more memories came to light. Had his head been injured again last night? She didn't know a lot about head wounds, but Maddie's caution from weeks ago was suddenly fresh on her mind.

Hollis frowning at her when she'd been singing as she'd washed clothing in camp.

Not looking at her when she'd delivered his meal to him when he'd been bedridden after his injury.

Hollis wasn't her husband.

They weren't married at all.

She wasn't even sure he would consider her a friend.

He'd told her when she'd joined the company in Independence that he was only allowing her there because Joseph had written and begged Hollis to watch over her. Joseph had sent funds for her journey after Mr. Smith had stolen all the savings she'd set aside for the long trip west.

Now the weight of Hollis's arm around her waist felt wrong. Embarrassment warred with shame. When Hollis's memories returned, he'd realize just how mistaken they'd been about their relationship.

He might even come to hate her?—

She couldn't stop the sharp inhale as the gravity of everything he'd shared with her last night sank in. Hollis was a deeply private person. He'd shared one of his most painful memories with her. Not only the words but the pain and grief as she'd held him close.

When he remembered who she was to him—no one—and what he'd told her, he might be angry.

She couldn't be sure whether it was the breathless grief of losing her mam all over again or the loss of the tenuous relationship she'd formed with Hollis, but tears welled in her eyes.

Now she had a new reason to push for every mile they could make today. The sooner they reunited with the company, Abigail would be with her friends and Hollis with August and Owen, who seemed to be the only ones he let close.

When his memories returned, everything would change.