Chapter 7

Seven

H's stomach growled as he trudged along several yards beside the riverbank.

Sparrow walked beside and slightly behind him. Surely she was hungry, too. Yesterday around midday, they had eaten the fish he'd caught at their original camp. He hadn't stopped to fish again, not with the river water muddy and murky.

Not when someone might be trailing them.

The ground was already dry. Still hard, as if the torrential rainfall had run off instead of soaking in. The rain had been of little help to the parched grass all around. They'd passed through the charred remains of grass that had been scorched by the wildfire. He guessed it had been lit by one of the strikes of lightning. Last night, they'd seemed so close. Too close.

He didn't want to think about that now.

When he glanced at Sparrow, her mouth formed a moue of determination, her eyes on the horizon in front of them. She'd been quiet all morning, and it unsettled him.

He'd felt it from the first moment he'd come awake—he hadn't meant to fall asleep, the two of them wedged under that fallen tree that had become a makeshift shelter—as she'd pulled out of his arms. He'd been experiencing a vivid dream—a memory?—of lying in a bed, covered by the quilt, next to his wife, their fingers threaded together. He'd just been about to glance into her face—Sparrow's face?—when he'd been awakened by the movement of her drawing away.

She'd disappeared into some scrub brush for a few moments of privacy, and when she'd returned, he could tell something had changed. Whatever was bothering her, she wasn't sharing.

When hunger pangs had him gathering the fishing line and whittled hook from his pocket, she'd been the one to insist they start walking early, that there would be time to eat later.

It was probably for the best.

He caught the tail end of a glance from Sparrow, but when he turned his face toward her, she kept her eyes focused ahead as she picked her way around a stand of spiny shrubs.

The determination was new. H had been the one pushing yesterday. He could only guess how many miles they'd gone. His feet still ached from it.

Today, he felt resigned. If they hadn't found any sign of a camp or wagon train yesterday, just how far had they been washed downstream?

Worse, he'd realized not long after they'd started walking this morning that any tracks or sign of others likely would've been washed away by the strong rains. If anyone was out looking for them, the scouts might miss them altogether.

The only thing that kept him pushing this morning was the knowledge that whoever had attacked him last night was still out there. He couldn't keep from glancing over his shoulder. He felt as if there was a target painted on his back. And underneath it all was a blanket of grief over the memory that had surfaced last night. Charles's last breaths. His laugh. Missing him in every moment.

The quiet became too much. H blurted, "If we don't find a place to fish soon, it might be best to stop and figure how to lay a snare. It might take some time, but we could catch a rabbit or some other critter."

Her eyes darted to him and then back to the horizon. She worried her bottom lip between her teeth.

He hadn't heard her humming all morning. He hadn't realized it was bothering him until the moment it became clear in his mind. He'd grown used to her sweet notes as she'd hiked along all day yesterday and a few times the day before in their camp. Now it was like an itch he couldn't scratch.

She pointed toward the western horizon. Still didn't stop. "Don't you think we should keep moving? Surely we must be catching up with the company by now."

There seemed to be both an urgency and a worry in her statement.

"I'm a little concerned," he confessed. "They may have moved on without us. We know we've been on our own for at least three days. And last night's rain would've washed away any tracks—ours or those of a company. Maybe they think we're dead. Maybe they've left."

Yet the statement felt off, like a chime ringing in his head at the wrong frequency.

She shook her head, her lips firming. "I—I regained more of my memories early this morning."

She had? The momentary elation was eclipsed by the question of why she hadn't mentioned it before now. They'd been up and moving for at least two hours.

Her eyes darted away from his glance. Had she remembered something unsavory about their relationship? Had they been in a fight when they'd been swept away by the river? His next step crunched a burned clump of grass.

"I remembered our company," she said tightly. "Our friends. Owen Mason, one of your captains. And August, his brother. A talented scout."

She glanced at him questioningly, but he shook his head. The names didn't unlock anything in his shadowy memories. They were simply names.

"Felicity, the woman—" She cut herself off. "My friend." At her side, her hand flexed and then balled into a fist. "They wouldn't leave us behind."

She sounded certain. Enough that he wanted to believe her, even if he had no memories of his own of these people she spoke of.

"You remembered a lot," he murmured.

She rubbed a hand over her brow, leaving a streak of mud high on her left cheek. "I think... I think before the crossing, we were traveling on that side of the river." She waved across the span of the churning water. "I remember falling in. My wagon brushed against a beehive. Bees started stinging me—and the oxen. You were on your horse..."

He closed his hand over hers and she blinked out of the memory. Her breaths had grown more rapid. He didn't want her to be frightened, not now.

"What are our names?" His voice contained a breathless note. A sense of being on a precipice. Her words stirred something inside him.

He used her hand to tug her to a stop, to force her to face him.

Her eyes were big in her face. "My name is Abigail."

She watched him closely. He wished that hearing her name unlocked his memories. He wanted to have them. The wedding that he'd remembered snatches of. How they'd met. All the moments in between.

Disappointment flickered in her eyes, echoing his own feelings. She smiled flatly.

"And you are Hollis Tremblay. The wagon master of our company."

She said more, but the words didn't register as he was thrown into a memory.

"Hollis, grab the tongs."

"I remember my pa," he breathed. He hadn't meant to tighten his grip on her hand, but he was clinging to her as the memory washed over him and reality faded.

All of fifteen, working in the livery with Pa. The two of them repairing a carriage, working with the axle and wheels.

The clouds of grief over losing Charles had only started to pass.

There was something else there.

A man rushed into the livery, spewing mad.

"You rented me a bad horse."

Hollis knew the horse. It was Hollis's own beloved chestnut gelding, the one he'd raised from a colt. A fine animal, if sensitive.

The details of the conversation between the man and Hollis's pa blurred as Hollis realized what had happened—his horse had been injured.

He ran through the city streets to where the lane changed to open country—and saw his horse lying prone..

A profound silence blocked out everything else in a rush of white.

His horse, his friend, was gone.

Hollis came back into the present with tears on his face. Abigail reached up to brush them away.

How much of that had he said aloud? Enough, because she was blinking back tears of her own.

"What a terrible tragedy," she breathed.

But when he reached for her, wanting to draw her near, needing the comfort of someone he loved in his arms, she stayed him with a hand at his chest.

"Wait."

His emotions tumbled. Why was she pulling away? He couldn't understand?—

"There's something you should know."

He didn't want to know. Whatever was broken between them, there in the shadows of his memories, he'd fix it. He looked over her head, his eyes unfocused as emotion surged. And saw a man in the far distance, on horseback.

Abigail felt the sudden tension in Hollis where they were still connected by their hands.

For a moment, she thought that perhaps his own memories had returned, but then she noticed he was staring over her head.

She was turning to see what he was looking at when his arm banded around her waist.

"Let's hide in the trees," he said urgently. "It might be the man from last night."

An echo of the stark terror she'd felt when she'd realized that Hollis was grappling with the other man trembled through her. She allowed herself to be pulled in the direction of the nearest patch of woods but couldn't resist craning her neck for one look over her shoulder.

She stopped dead. "Hollis!" She clutched his shoulder. "That's August. That's his horse."

She'd recognize the buckskin mare anywhere, even if the man himself was only a dark smudge at this distance.

"You absolutely sure?" Hollis demanded. He held onto her waist, his strength keeping her from breaking out into a sprint.

August meant safety. They must be close to the company! Though it came to her in an instant that August usually ranged far and wide when he was tracking.

Hollis had told her that the rains last night would erase any kind of tracks. If they had any hope of reuniting with the company, they needed to catch August's attention.

"Here!" she shouted. Hollis's arm fell away from her waist. She waved her arms, aware of him behind her. "We're here!"

The scream left her throat feeling hoarse, and she was quickly out of breath as she jumped and waved both arms.

"He can't hear you." Hollis moved behind her. What was he doing, why wasn't he?—?

She couldn't tear her eyes away from August's horse. She realized he was getting smaller, moving away from them.

"No!" desperation leaked out in her voice.

"I'm going to fire a signal shot," Hollis warned.

She finally turned and saw he'd taken his gun out of its holster. He was pointing it toward the ground, away from both of them.

Even though he'd warned her, the crack of the shot echoed in her chest as she stared at the far off rider.

The horse wheeled.

The moment seemed to stretch long as she waited, breathless.

And then a quiet sound, one that seemed to barely reach their ears.

The crack of another shot.

They'd been heard.

Slowly, August grew bigger. She couldn't contain herself. She ran toward him. She could feel Hollis following, then became aware of his strained breath, probably from his injuries last night. All morning long, she hadn't missed how gingerly he moved, how his ribs pained him.

She slowed to a fast walk, sending a concerned glance his way.

More horsemen joined August, and her heart leapt. She'd been right when she'd told Hollis that their company wouldn't abandon them in the wilderness.

As the men neared, she recognized Owen. And a cowboy–Gerry Bones, recognizable because of the stained white ten-gallon hat he wore to shade his brown-skinned face. And Mr. Beaumont, another traveler with the company that she didn't know as well. Beaumont's pale blue shirt was a contrast to his brown skin with golden undertones.

August slid off his horse before the animal had plodded to a stop.

"Hollis! Abigail!"

She ran and threw her arms around him. She couldn't say whether she'd ever hugged him before, but the moment his arms closed around her in a brief hug, sweet relief flowed through her. Tears sprang to her eyes. She laughed a little as one slipped free. She took a step back.

"Are we glad to see you," August said.

Owen was off his horse, his hand clasping Hollis's wrist in a firm clasp. The two other men were still dismounting.

"We found Abigail's wagon, deduced that you two had been swept away in the river," Owen said.

August had turned back to his horse. Now he pulled out something wrapped in a handkerchief. He unfolded it to reveal a biscuit, golden and floury.

He gave it to Abigail, who broke it in two and handed one half to Hollis. His eyes said his thanks as he stuffed it in his mouth.

Mr. Beaumont approached, shrewd black eyes taking them in.

"Some of the company thought you were dead," Beaumont said. "Jes' like before."

Abigail shuddered. August saw, shifted closer.

"You all right?" he asked low.

"We didn't know what had happened for a couple days," she told him. She explained about their memories, about the vomit they'd seen, their conclusion about the berries.

Sometime in the middle of her explanation, August had pulled a blanket from behind his saddle and wrapped it around her. It smelled clean and faintly of horse, and she realized just how badly she needed a bath and her dress and underthings laundered. The warmth from the blanket seeped in to her skin, still damp from their night in the rain.

"His memories haven't come back?" August asked her, voice low.

The other three men had clustered around Hollis and Abigail was content to be half-hidden behind August's horse, blocked from their rapid-fire conversation peppered with words like, "wildfire" and "flooding."

Now that she and Hollis had been found, she was terribly conscious of how it looked for two unmarried travelers to be alone in the wild together for several days.

Beaumont glanced at her over his shoulder, curiosity evident in his expression.

"...came across a man on horseback, a small camp," Hollis was saying.

August cupped her shoulder momentarily and then edged toward the other men.

"Did you get a look at him?" Owen pressed. "I've heard rumor someone might be tracking our company, but neither August or I have seen any sign to indicate he was close."

She saw the flicker of uncertainty cross Hollis's expression. He must've noticed how the men were looking to him for leadership. "It was dark. I only had a glimpse of his face once, when lightning flashed."

She edged toward August. "August?—"

He glanced at her. "We need to get these two back to camp. I'm sure they're half starved and in want of a real bed."

Owen nodded decisively. "We can double up. The horses won't be able to travel fast, but the two of you must be worn plumb out after everything you've endured."

Hollis's expression softened. "Sparrow—Abigail kept our spirits up with her singing and humming."

Owen shot a confused glance between the two of them. "You... liked it?"

"Why wouldn't I like my wife's voice?"

The moment the words left Hollis's mouth, Abigail stifled a gasp.

August showed no surprise, but shock was clearly written on Owen's face, along with the other two men.

Hollis had claimed her as his wife. The deductions the two of them had made were the influence of their proximity and those berries. And they'd been wrong. His claim wasn't true.

What was she supposed to do now?