Chapter 14

Chapter 14

The trail stretched ahead into the horizon, where shimmering mountains with snow-capped peaks rose like an impenetrable wall before him. John was riding on horseback, urging his mount onward, knowing he had to be somewhere and soon.

"Come on, Cleardew, you can do it. Ride like the wind," he said, using the stirrups to urge the horse into a faster gallop.

The landscape passed by in a blur—scrubland covered with snow, and a river frozen in its flow. They had just crossed a bridge, the trail snaking along the riverbanks. There were buildings up ahead, a ranch or farm.

"We're here now, I think. This is the place. You'll get a stable to bed down in, and I might get a bed in the house if I'm lucky," John said, smiling at the thought of warm stove and a hot meal.

They passed a sign saying "Misty Hollow," and the buildings came into view—snow-covered, but with a plume of smoke rising from a chimney. John was about to jump down from the horse's back, but the horse stumbled, and as John tried to rein her in, he fell, letting out a cry as he sprawled on the cold, hard ground.

"Help me," he called out, his vision going dark as he tried to sit.

Suddenly, a hand had hold of him, and a man's voice from above was reassuring, "That was a nasty fall, stranger. You're all right, though. Let's get you into the house."

John tried to open his eyes and see who was speaking, but it was as though he was now drifting away, losing consciousness, until…

***

"John? John, can you hear me? Wake up. You're having a bad dream," another voice above him was saying, and, opening his eyes, John found himself looking up at Tara.

She was standing over him, looking down with an anxious expression.

"Oh… I… was I asleep?" he asked, for the dream had seemed so real as to be a memory rather than imagination.

Tara smiled, placing her hand on his with a comforting look on her face."Very much so, yes. But it's all right, you're awake now. Was it the same dream as before?"

John had woken up properly now, but he could remember the dream as though he was still living it—the trail, the horse, the ranch, and then the fall, and the voice of the man coming to his aid. It was nothing like the dream of the bandana-wearing robber, and John realized he may have remembered something new. He sat up, his eyes growing wide at the realization, even as he could not interpret properly what he had seen.

"No, it wasn't. I was riding along the trail," he began, and he recounted the dream just as he remembered it.

Tara listened with interest, nodding as he explained how he had come to the farm and then fallen from the horse. "So, in the last dream, someone tried to hurt you, but in this dream, someone tried to help you," she said.

"That's about it, yes. But I still don't know which one's real. Maybe they're both just my imagination. I cried out for help in the first dream, and I got it in the second," John said, feeling less hopeful now of having remembered anything of any truth. "Doctor Reardon would probably say it was nothing but wishful thinking."

"But it's something new. It shows your memories are working in some way or another. Perhaps you didn't fall off a horse, but you might well have ridden along the trail you saw or stopped at the farm to rest. Why don't you try drawing it again? It sounds like it's fresh in your memory," Tara said, and John nodded.

It was a good idea. He could see the scene vividly, but as for the man's face, that remained concealed. There had been no bandana, but John had been unable to open his eyes and see. He tried to remember, but all he could summon was the sound of the man's voice.

"That was a nasty fall, stranger. You're all right, though. Let's get you into the house," he had said—but who was he? And at what point in John's past had this occurred?

"I'll try to draw it. That's a good idea. Would you hand me my notepad, please?" John asked.

He was eager to sketch the memory as quickly as possible, and Tara leaned down to get the notepad from the bedside table. She handed it to John, and he opened it, quite forgetting the fact of his having sketched Tara herself on the first few pages. As her image appeared, he blushed, hastily turning the page and hoping she had not noticed. But she had.

"What are those?" she exclaimed, and John was filled with embarrassment at Tara having seen the pictures he had drawn of her.

He felt certain she would be angry, but as he flicked back to the first drawing he had made of her, a smile lit up her face.

"I was just… passing the time," John said as Tara took the notepad from him to examine the picture closer.

"But this is wonderful! I've never had anyone draw a picture of me before. You've got a real talent, John. Perhaps you're an artist," she said, turning the notepad this way and that as she admired the drawing of herself, holding it up to the light and smiling.

Despite Tara's obvious pleasure, John still felt embarrassed. He hadn't meant for her to see the sketches, or to know he had drawn her. There were five drawings in total, and Tara flicked through the notepad, smiling and shaking her head as she marveled at each new portrait.

"I hope you don't mind," John said, and Tara looked at him in surprise.

"Why would I mind? I think it's lovely. You've got a real talent. I'd like one of these for myself," she replied.

John was taken aback at these words, though he was quite willing to consent, even as he didn't believe himself to have any particular talent. Tara was an easy subject—she was the prettiest woman he had ever seen, though, granted, he couldn't remember seeing many other women. But there was something about Tara—something different. To draw her had been easy, and he had every intention of drawing her again.

"If you'd like, yes. I don't think they're very good, but you can choose any one you want," John said.

Tara flicked again through the notepad, alighting on the first page of John's attempts to depict her.

"I like this one. The first one. I think it's perfect," she said, and John nodded.

"Please, take it. I thought you'd be angry if you saw them. I should've asked you before I drew it," he said, but Tara shook her head.

"I'm glad you did. You didn't need to ask permission. I'm more than happy for you to draw me again. I think it's sweet. But you need to sketch your dream now, and I've got my duties to see to," she said.

John tore out the picture of Tara from the notepad, being careful not to rip it as he did so. He wondered what her beau from Chicago would say when he saw the picture—would he be angry?

"It's just one of the patients from the clinic," Tara would tell him. "The one who can't remember anything."

It saddened John to think of himself like this. In another place, at another time, perhaps he and Tara might have had a chance of being together. But what woman would want a cripple with no memory for a husband?

As Tara went off to see to the other patients, John sighed to himself, wondering if he would ever fully recover. But the memory of the dream gave him hope. Tara was right. It was something new, another recollection of sorts, and as he sketched, John felt grateful to the stranger who had helped him, even as he tried hard to remember who it was.

***

"Goodbye, Katie. I'll see you tomorrow," Tara called out.

She had just finished her shift at the clinic and was about to go home. The drawing was rolled up and tied with string, and before she left, she went to the ward to say goodbye to John. He was asleep, and rather than disturb him, Tara took his notepad he used for sketching and opened it to the next blank page.

There, she wrote a simple "thank you" before replacing the notepad on the bedside table. John had been busy that afternoon, and he had sketched several scenes from his dream. Tara felt certain these were memories, even as Doctor Reardon had dismissed them as fantasies.

"We just don't understand dreams well enough, Tara. A dream isn't a memory," he had said when Tara had told him what John was doing.

"But it has to be based on something. We can't imagine things that have no basis in what we've experienced, can we?" Tara had replied, but Doctor Reardon had dismissed the idea, telling her to concentrate on looking after the patients rather than trying to make herself an alienist.

But Tara was determined to do all she could to help John, and she planned to visit the town's library the next day and consult some books on disorders of the mind—if Freemont's public library extended its collection to such texts. For a moment, she stood at John's bedside, looking down at the sleeping man and smiling. He had a handsome face, and a kindly disposition about him. She had been flattered by the drawings he had made of her, though she didn't think it would be wise to show the one she had taken to Kyle.

He might get the wrong idea, she thought as she turned to leave, nodding to the several of the other patients as she left the ward.

Outside, it was snowing again, a bitter wind blowing through the streets. Tara was looking forward to getting home and getting warm. She hoped Kyle had lit the stove, and perhaps even made dinner. But as she approached the house, she was surprised to find no lamp burning in the window, and as she entered the yard, she saw Stanley looking expectantly out of his stall.

"Haven't you been fed, Stanley?" she asked, hurrying over to the horse, who whinnied indignantly at her.

It seemed none of the animals had been fed, so Tara hurried around the yard, throwing feed into the pens and checking the stalls. There was no sign of Kyle, and when she eventually let herself into the house, Maisy let out a loud meow.

"Oh, Maisy, have you been here all by yourself today?" Tara exclaimed, tutting and shaking her head.

The stove was cold, and there was nothing prepared to eat. Tara was kept busy for the next hour, lighting a fire and preparing a meal. It was only as she was sitting down to eat that she heard a footfall on the porch, and the sound of someone taking off their boots. Hurrying to the door, she opened it to find Kyle standing on the porch.

"Kyle… I was worried. Have you been here today?" she asked, and he shook his head.

He looked distracted, glancing over his shoulder as he entered the house. "No, I had things to do. I didn't have time."

"Oh… I see," Tara said, confused as to what he could have been doing, though she felt she could not ask for fear of sounding rude.

But Kyle knew no one in Freemont, and he had hardly been there long enough to have anything particular to do. It seemed strange, and Tara wondered if he was merely making excuses for not bothering with the tasks he had promised to perform. It seemed strange, though, and entirely out of character. He was on edge about something.

Before sitting down, he glanced out of the window, pulling the curtain across and causing Maisy to jump down with an irritated hiss.

"It's nothing to worry about. I was just seeing to some business. I need to get myself established here, and I won't do that by resting on my laurels," he said, smiling at her as he sat down.

"It's just… well, I'd have fed the animals earlier if I'd known you weren't coming. Poor Stanley had nothing in his stall, and the chickens can't peck in the snow," Tara replied.

She was trying not to feel irritated by his behavior. She didn't want to be upset with him, but he had promised to see to the animals—her animals—and that promise had been broken.

"I'll be here tomorrow, I promise," he said, and Tara nodded.

"Well, all right. Did you get everything done you wanted to do?" she asked, still feeling curious as to what business he could be involved in after such a short time in Freemont.

"It doesn't matter. It's all sorted. There was a chance of a job, but it didn't come to anything. Is there anything to eat?" he asked, glancing at the stove.

Tara had made a soup with vegetables and barley. It wasn't much, and the thought now occurred to her for the two of them to go to the coffeehouse or the saloon to eat. They were yet to step out together, and Tara was eager to be seen with Kyle, and for the town to know there was the serious possibility of their becoming engaged.

She knew what many people thought about mail-order grooms—that there were no real feelings involved, only the convenience for both sides to gain what they wanted. But Tara wanted to prove the naysayers wrong, and once the town got used to the idea of Nurse Culden's beau, Tara felt certain they would embrace Kyle as their own.

"Well, I thought we could go out tonight. To the coffeehouse or the saloon. It would be nice to choose what we eat. They do a delicious juneberry pie at Benson's. They're famous for it," Tara said.

But to her surprise, Kyle shook his head.

"No, I don't think so," he said, cutting short the possibility with the bluntness of his tone.

Tara was taken aback. She had thought it would be nice for the two of them to step out and enjoy a meal together. In the depths of winter, the saloon and the coffeehouse were where the locals gathered to socialize and catch up on one another's news. It seemed a shame to miss an opportunity to do so.

"Oh, but it's just barley soup here, Kyle. Wouldn't you like some meat? They do a delicious plate of chops at the saloon. Sheriff Fenton demolished a plate of them last week when we all had dinner there together. It's not one of those rough saloons, you'll like it," she said, but again he shook his head.

"I said I don't want to, Tara. That's the end of it," he replied.

"Come on, Kyle. You need to get to know people if you're going to stay."

"And what's that supposed to mean? If I'm going to stay? Aren't I here now? Didn't I come all this way from Chicago?" he asked.

Tara faltered. She hadn't meant to upset him. It had been an innocent suggestion.

"I didn't mean it like that," she said, trying to quell the argument. "But wouldn't it be nice to make some friends and get to know people? It can't be easy being so far away from the familiar. I just thought it might help to be in the company of others. I'll introduce you to Gina and Tiffany and Thomas, but you'll want to make your own friends, too. Tiffany did invite us for dinner, but her invitations can be a little vague at times."

Kyle shook his head, and now he rose to his feet, making as though to leave. "I'll just go back to the boarding house. I've had a long day and I'm tired."

"But don't you want to eat?" Tara asked, glancing at the pot on the stove.

"No, it's all right. I've got some leftovers from the journey. I'll just eat those, and I'll be back tomorrow morning to see to the animals. I'm sorry about today. I'll make it up to you," he said and, taking his coat, opened the door onto the porch.

A blast of cold air rushed into the parlor, guttering the lamps and causing the fire in the stove to splutter. Tara went to follow Kyle outside, but he told her to stay, pointing back into the house even as she tried to protest.

"Please, Kyle. Is something wrong?" Tara asked, fearing there was more to this than tiredness.

But he shook his head, repeating his order for her to get back inside.

"You'll catch your death of cold out here, Tara. Stay inside. And there's nothing wrong; I just don't want the whole town gossiping about me and knowing my business."

"But why would they?" Tara asked, but she was met only with a dismissive wave as Kyle trudged off through the snow.

For a few moments, despite the bitter chill in the air, Tara stood watching him go. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she feared she had done something wrong, pushed the matter too far and upset him. She had only wanted them to spend time together, but it seemed she had inadvertently driven a wedge between them. This was the second day in a row he had left early, and Tara was convinced something was not right.

"Oh, Maisy. What have I done wrong?" Tara said, picking up the cat as she returned inside.

Maisy let out a plaintive mew, rubbing her face against Tara's chin as Tara sat down with her on one of the chairs by the stove. She didn't feel like eating, and she wondered again if she had been too hasty to see Kyle as her savior.

He'd seemed so perfect at first, but something had changed—something was distracting him, and Tara couldn't help but wonder if there was something he wasn't telling her. She thought back to the men on the ridge, and now his reticence at being seen at the coffeehouse or the saloon. Was he hiding from someone?

I need to be careful, she thought, knowing just what Gina and Tiffany would say if they found out what was happening. "You don't know him, Tara. You don't know anything about him."

And it was with this thought Tara went to bed that night, fearing Kyle was now revealing his true colors and wondering what would come next.