Chapter 15

Chapter 15

"I'd like you to meet him," Tara said, taking a sip of coffee as Gina raised her eyebrows.

"And what if I don't like him?" she asked.

They were sitting in the coffeehouse, and Tara had confided something of what had happened between her and Kyle the night before. She'd held back at first, but a best friend could always tell when something is wrong, and Gina had guessed Tara had something on her mind.

"He's charming. It's just… well, it's like he has two sides to him. He's lovely, just like the man in the letters, but then he becomes withdrawn and secretive. He doesn't want to mix with people or see anyone. The other day, we were out riding along the creek. We'd been for a picnic. But when we were coming back, we saw two men on the path on rocks above. I didn't think anything of it, but it was as though he was scared of them."

At first, she had put Kyle's reticence down to shyness, but there was more to it than that. She had seen the look in his eyes—fear, anger even. That morning, he had arrived as he had promised, but he had been quiet, barely saying two words and going straight to his jobs outside. Tara had made coffee for them and cooked him breakfast, but he had told her he would eat later and that she should be getting to work.

As it turned out, Tara had several hours before she was due at the clinic, but instead of remaining with Kyle, she had sought the company of Gina, hoping and yet not hoping that her friend would guess something was wrong.

Gina raised her eyebrows. "I see. I won't say I told you so, but you really don't know much about him, do you? I mean, does he have any friends here? Has he been here before? What kind of business would he have after just a few days?"

They were all legitimate questions, and ones to which Tara did not have a ready answer. She didn't think Kyle had ever visited Montana before, let alone Freemont, and yet to have business there so soon seemed odd, though he had told her he was simply looking for a job.

"I know… and I want to believe him. It's just… well, you were right, Gina. You and Tiffany. I don't know Kyle, not really. He's lovely, but there's another side to him, one I hadn't realized existed," Tara said.

Gina took a sip of coffee, pondering Tara's words, then shrugged. "I suppose I could say you're stuck with him now. He's come all this way to be with you, and now he's here, you can't very well send him away again, can you? But I know that's not very helpful," she said, and Tara smiled.

"No, it's not. But you're right," she said, taking a sip of her own coffee and wondering what she was meant to do when faced with the stark reality of Gina's words.

"You've got time to give him the benefit of the doubt. I know I was against the whole thing from the beginning, but I want you to be happy, Tara. He's just finding his feet. Perhaps he wanted to get his bearings, speak to a few people, find a job. Look, if it'll put your mind at ease, I could ask Thomas to look into him," she said, but Tara shook her head.

If Kyle got wind she had asked the sheriff to keep an eye on him, he was certain to be angry with her—what man wouldn't be? Besides, she didn't want to be actively suspicious of him. In truth, he had done no more than snap at her a few times and disappear on a couple of occasions. It was hardly grounds to call the whole thing off—and yet questions still remained.

"I can't do that. It's not right, Gina. No, I just… I had to tell you," she said, and Gina smiled.

"We don't have secrets from one another, Tara. And before you ask, I've spoken to Randy and we've smoothed things over. Even if the school does close, he's not going anywhere. He's promised me that."

Had Tara not been thinking of her own predicament, she might have considered this wishful thinking on the part of her best friend. But she was grateful to Gina for having been a listening ear. The past day hadn't been easy, and Tara was fearful of what was to come. Would she and Kyle be able to settle their differences, or was this already the beginning of the end?

"I'm glad to hear it, Gina. You both deserve to be happy," she said.

Gina reached out and placed her hand on Tara's, smiling at her with a reassuring look on her face. "We both do. But men don't make it easy, do they? Tiffany told me she'd invited you and Kyle over for dinner. Do you think he'll go?"

"I hope he will. Perhaps suggesting the saloon wasn't such a good idea, but if it's just dinner with friends—my friends—I'm sure he'll agree."

But as the two of them parted ways outside the coffeehouse, Tara was not convinced of her own words. She feared Kyle would refuse, and that another argument would ensue. As she walked to the clinic, she wondered what he was doing now. Did he have further "business" to attend to?

Don't think about him now, she told herself, for she had a job to do. And with tensions growing at home, she was looking forward to getting to work—looking forward to seeing John.

***

"I want to go out," John said, looking longingly out the window of the ward.

From it, he could see along the street toward what appeared to be a saloon and a mercantile. People were hurrying back and forth, dressed in their winter coats and hats. Beyond lay the mountains, towering up above. But it was not this scene specifically that attracted him, though it was very pretty.

At that moment, anywhere would have been preferable to the four walls of the ward and the line of regimented beds opposite him. He was bored of the same people, the same conversations, and was longing for a change. Tara was the only bright spot on his horizon, and she hadn't been at work for the past day.

Katie, who had just come to empty his chamber pot, raised her eyebrows."And how do you intend to do that?" she asked, looking down at his broken leg.

"All right, I can't walk. But couldn't someone push me out? I need some fresh air. I need to look at something other than these four walls," John said.

He was feeling increasingly frustrated with his situation—the lack of progress in recovering his memory, and the time it was taking for his leg to heal.

"And who's got time to take you outside? Do you know what we're expected to do here when we're on shift?" Katie said.

John sighed. He wasn't asking for someone to take him out. If only one of the orderlies was willing to push him out into the yard at the hospital, that would be enough. He looked at Katie apologetically.

"I know, I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it. I know how hard you all work. It's just, I'm used to the trail, and to fresh air, and freedom," he said, clenching his fist in frustration.

"Right now, you don't know what you're used to," Katie pointed out.

But John's only recollections—apart from the letter—were moments spent outside, on a journey, which suggested it was there he felt most at ease. He imagined himself to be a rancher, or trapper, perhaps even an adventurer—or even just a plain old cowboy. But whoever he was, John felt certain he was drawn to the outdoors, to life on the trail. He could feel it in his bones. Being cooped up in a ward and confined to a bed did not suit him at all.

"And I never will if I have to stay here for the rest of my life," John replied.

Katie shrugged and, taking his chamber pot, returned to her duties. But it wasn't long before a familiar face lightened his mood, and when Tara replaced Katie on the ward, John decided to try his luck with her.

"It's cold out there," Tara said, glancing out the window by John's bed.

She had brought him his midday meal, a warming bowl of soup with a large hunk of bread. John was hungry—his appetite hadn't suffered from his ordeal, and he ate whatever was placed in front of him.

"What's it like? Freemont, I mean. For all I know, I could've been here a hundred times, but I don't remember anything about it," John said.

Tara turned to him and smiled. "It's a nice enough town. There's nothing particularly special about it, though. I've lived here my whole life, though, and I wouldn't want to be anywhere else."

"I'd like to see it for myself. I asked Katie if there was a chance, but she said no," John said.

Tara looked at him quizzically. "You can't walk… but I could push you in the wheelchair. I'd have to ask for Doctor Reardon's permission, of course."

John was eager for her to do so. He didn't like the thought of being seen in a wheelchair, but he would far prefer that than to remain in the hospital ward another day, mulling over his own thoughts and lack of memory.

"Would you? And would you really push me out in the chair?"

"If I'm allowed, I will. It might even help you to remember something more about why you're here," Tara replied.

John was buoyed by the prospect, and he waited eagerly for the arrival of Doctor Reardon, watching as Tara went to ask him if she could accompany John on his walk—or his wheels.

"Nurse Culden tells me you want to go out in the wheelchair," the doctor said, approaching John's bed and looking down at him curiously.

"That's right. I don't want to go far. I just need some fresh air. And it might help me to remember something," John replied.

The doctor pondered for a moment. Then, to John's immense relief, he nodded.

"All right, but only for an hour at the most, and make sure she wraps you up warm," he said. "You'll be sitting still in the chair, and it's bitter out there. I can't promise we'll make a habit of it, though. Nurse Culden has other duties to attend to."

Tara was standing behind the doctor, and she smiled at John as he breathed a sigh of relief.

"Thank you," he said as Doctor Reardon went off to see to one of the other patients.

"Let's get you ready. We can go now, if you like. But I'm warning you, it's cold out there," she said.

But John was more than ready to face the cold. He was simply happy to be going outside, and once Tara and Katie had helped wrap him up in a blanket and transfer from the bed into the wheelchair, he felt excited at the prospect of finally seeing Freemont for himself. The chair itself was somewhat cumbersome, and it required the help of Peter and a ramp to get it out into the yard, where the snow lay thick on the ground.

"Are you sure you'll be all right to push, Nurse Culden?" the orderly asked.

"I picked John up and carried him up onto the trail after his accident, didn't I? I'm sure I can manage the wheelchair," Tara replied, raising her eyebrows as Peter blushed.

"Well… if you need any help, just ask," he said before hurrying back inside.

Tara laughed. "Why is it men always think women need help? Could he have pushed you any better with those scrawny arms and lanky legs?" she said, shaking her head.

John smiled. She had such an easy manner about her. She could tell a joke or be serious, and she had a remarkable ability to put others at ease—or at least that was how John felt. He enjoyed her company, and as she pushed him through the snow, their conversation flowed easily.

"So this is Freemont, Montana in the winter of eighteen eighty," John said, looking out along the main street, where hunched figures hurried along through the snow and the dark sky above promised further flurries.

The town itself was nothing out of the ordinary—a frontier town with everything one might expect of such a place. John could see the saloon on one side of the street, where lamps hung in the windows, and the sound of piano music drifted on the air. There was the spire of a small church, a mercantile store, and what looked like a coffeehouse with women sitting in the window gossiping with one another.

It was nice enough, though John couldn't imagine any reason why he should have come there. Perhaps it was entirely familiar to him, but in his current state, it felt as though he had never been there in his life. And yet the setting of the town was somehow familiar—the towering mountains with their icy caps, and the stretch of the valley rising up to the pass above and down along the river beyond.

"This is it," Tara said as John continued to look up at the mountains, trying to remember why there should be some kind of familiarity to them.

"I've seen those peaks before," he said, pointing upward.

"You'd have seen them from the pass. On the day of your accident."

John nodded, but there was more to it than that. It was as though he knew a description of the landscape, and yet there was no reason why he should have done so. One part of the mountain above stood out in particular, and now he pointed up to it, gesturing for Tara to look, too.

"Yes, but isn't that a nose?" he said.

From their angle, the promontory of a particular piece of rock, high up on the mountain, made it look as though a nose and eyes were peering down from the rock. Tara looked at him in surprise and nodded.

"That's right. It's Dawson's Nose. Dawson was one of the first settlers here, and the first mayor of the town. We say he looks down on Freemont, keeping an eye on what he established. But how did you know that?"

John didn't know how he knew it. He just did. It was as though he had a recollection of a description—a memory of something previously told to him, or even seen.

"Perhaps I have been here before," John said, looking up at Tara and shrugging.

She smiled at him and patted his shoulder. "It was worth coming out just for that. Let's see if you remember anything else. You're doing really well, John."

He was grateful for her words, and yet he hoped they were not the result merely of sympathy. He couldn't bear the thought of being pitied, even as he knew his condition warranted it.

The thought of being viewed as an invalid for the rest of his life filled him with horror. He wasn't ready to give up hope of recovery, but the niggling doubt remained, as did his own sense of inadequacy when it came to what Tara thought of him. Was he merely a patient to her, or in her smile, her mannerisms, the ease of their conversation, was there something more?

"Where shall we go now?" he asked as she continued to push him along the street.

"This is your walk. We can go wherever you like," she said, but a shout from across the street caused her to look up.

"Tara? Over here!" a woman's voice called out, and John looked up to find a pretty young woman around the same age as Tara beckoning them over.

She was pretty, with long auburn hair and a smiling face. She was shorter than Tara, but only by a little, and wore a large overcoat and a bonnet that added height.

"Oh, that's my friend Gina. Perhaps you'd like to talk to her?" Tara said, turning the wheelchair in the woman's direction.

John would have preferred to continue talking to Tara alone, but he had no choice but to be wheeled in Gina's direction. She was standing outside one of the stores, where a number of people were busy packing crates with food.

"We're in the middle of packing for the food drive. I'm Gina, and you must be John. Tara's told me all about you," she said, and then, blushing, she corrected herself. "I mean… she's told me everything she can about you. Nothing personal, you understand."

John smiled and held out his hand. He didn't mind the thought of Tara discussing him with Gina. Or with anyone. It flattered him to think she thought of him beyond the confines of her duties.

"I'm sure I can fill in the rest. Well… what I can remember, at least," he replied.

"Oh, yes… I'm so sorry. It must be awful for you. I can't imagine what it's like to forget everything," Gina said.

"Gina…" Tara said in a reprimanding tone.

But John was not offended. There was no shame in his condition, and had the situation been reversed, he would have felt just the same as Gina—curious to meet someone who could remember nothing about themselves.

"It's all right. I'm sure lots of people are talking about me," John said, and Gina nodded.

"My brother's the sheriff. He's been making enquiries about you. But there's been nothing so far, I'm afraid," she said.

"It's a mystery," John said. "But tell me more about what you're doing here?"

If he couldn't remember anything about himself, he could at least show an interest in what others were doing and learn something in the present. Gina seemed only too happy to explain. She told John how she had been asked by the town's pastor, Reverend McGuire, to organize a charity drive, distributing food parcels to the needy in the run-up to Christmas.

"I'm very proud of Gina. She's always the first to help and the last to leave whenever anything needed to be done," Tara said, smiling at Gina, who blushed.

"I'm sure I get on everyone's nerves. But sometimes you have to push to get things done, don't you?" she said, and John nodded.

"I'm sure you're doing a wonderful job, Gina," he said, and Gina grinned.

"Well, I wish you a swift recovery. You couldn't have a better nurse than Tara. She's something special," Gina said.

Tara blushed. "Oh, don't say things like that. You'll embarrass me in front of John," she said, glancing at John, who shook his head.

"Gina's right. You're very special," he said, meeting Tara's gaze, even as she flushed a deeper shade of red.

For a moment, there was silence, until a voice behind them interrupted, calling Gina back to her charitable work.

"I'll see you later, Tara. It was lovely to meet you, John. And I'll pray for your recovery. I hope to see you again," she said, hurrying away to help again with packing the food parcels.

Tara pushed the chair off along the street, and John wondered what she was thinking, hoping he hadn't overstepped. But his words had come from truth. Tara was special, and she had proved it again that day by her kindness. They made their way slowly along the street, passing the mercantile and the coffeehouse. The bittersweet scent of coffee hung in the air, and the smell reminded John of something—a glimpse into his past.

"Coffee," he said. "I like coffee. That smell… I know it," he said, and Tara paused, angling the chair to face the coffeehouse, where several people peered out of the window with interest.

"Shall I fetch you one? We'll not get you inside, not with those steps, but I could ask Louisa to bring you out a cup. She's the proprietress. I'm sure she would," Tara said.

John didn't want her to go to any trouble, but Tara insisted, suggesting the taste of the coffee might bring back a specific memory. The smell gave only a vague recollection of something from the past, but Tara was right, the taste might make those memories more specific.

A few moments later, accompanied by a large woman with red cheeks wearing an apron and petticoats, Tara returned with a cup of coffee. It steamed in the chill of the air, and she handed it to John, who took it and breathed in the delicious aroma.

"So, you're the one who can't remember anything," the woman—who John assumed to be Louisa—said, looking down at him sympathetically.

"But we hope the taste of the coffee might help," Tara said, blushing at the bluntness of Louisa's words.

John took a sip. It was the first time he had tasted proper coffee since his arrival in Freemont, the clinic's coffee being more akin to woodshavings than real roasted beans. It was delicious—thick and creamy, with the bitter taste he remembered, and just a hint of sugar to balance the flavor. Immediately, John was transported elsewhere, to somewhere far away, where the memory of drinking coffee just like this seemed suddenly within his grasp.

"I've had it before. Just like this. I can remember it," he said, smiling at Tara, who clasped her hands together as though in gratitude.

"Oh, that's wonderful, John. Can you remember where you drank it?"

John took another sip, closing his eyes and seeing the interior of a coffeehouse. There were wood-paneled walls, and a hustle and bustle going on around him. Men were reading newspapers, and women were gossiping over their cups of coffee as a waiter slipped between the tables. John was sitting in a booth on his own, and he was writing a letter. It was the letter he had seen a flash of in his previous memory, but now the setting was certain.

"O'Neil's. I remember it now. That's the name of the coffeehouse. And I can see it all. It's where I was writing the letter," he exclaimed, and Tara's face broke into a smile.

"You did it, John. You remembered. I'm so glad," she said. "Thank you, Louisa. You've done more with a cup of coffee than we've been able to do at the clinic for the past week."

"Well, that one's on the house. I'm glad to have been of service to you, Mr. Smith. Perhaps a second cup might help you remember something else," she said as John finished the dregs.

"Thank you," he said, hardly daring to believe he had truly remembered something real about his past.

But the memory was real. John could see the coffeehouse and remember the name. He felt certain he went there regularly, and it was there he had written his letters. If he could remember this, he could surely remember more. As Tara pushed him farther along the street, John was filled with the hope he would one day remember everything.