Chapter 25

Chapter 25

"Where's John?" Tara asked, entering the parlor with her basket under her arm and finding only Kyle sitting by the stove.

"He's just packing the last of his things. Did you get everything you needed? You've been gone a while."

"I met Gina and Randy. They were telling me about an outlaw the bounty hunters are looking for," Tara replied.

At these words, a shadow passed over Kyle's face, but he rolled his eyes as he rose to his feet.

"Oh, they're always looking for someone or other. I'm sure it's nothing."

"But there was a nasty robbery while you were away. Some awful gang stole the donations for the Christmas food drive. It's just despicable," Tara said, shaking her head in disgust.

The whole town had been aghast at the theft, and there was a great deal of ill-feeling towards whoever was responsible. It was one thing to rob a bank or a mail coach—such things happened all the time—but to steal from the poorest of the poor, and to steal what had been so generously given by those who often had little than themselves was nothing short of wickedness.

That's what happens, I suppose," Kyle said, but Tara shook her head.

"But not here it doesn't. People in this town are good, law-abiding citizens," she said. "We don't get any trouble here. In a bigger place like Helena or Saint Paul's, perhaps, but not here. It leaves a nasty taste. I felt so awful for Gina. She worked so hard collecting the donations."

Kyle nodded. He didn't seem particularly interested in what she was saying, and Tara set about unpacking the basket and preparing food for his and John's journey. She wanted a chance to speak to John alone, but she feared she wouldn't have that chance given Kyle's overbearingness. He would not allow it—of that, she felt certain.

"We'd better be going. I want to be back before it gets dark," Kyle said, glancing out the parlor window.

"Shall I go and fetch John?" Tara asked, hoping for an opportunity to speak to him, but Kyle shook his head.

"No, I don't think you need to do that. He'll just be finishing off his packing. Let him get on with it. I'll go out in a minute," he said.

He said it in a casual manner, as though he was simply trying to save her the hassle of putting on her shawl to go outside. But behind his words was something more—a sense of his asserting his control. Tara had no choice but to agree, even as she feared this was how it was to be from now on. How would she be able to tell him the truth about her feelings? Would he be angry? Would he grow violent?

"I've just put a few things together—some bread and cheese, some beef jerky, a few apples," Tara said, handing Kyle a cloth containing the food, tied up with string.

"That's good of you, Tara. And I'm sure you'll have something tasty prepared for when I get back, won't you?" he said.

Tara nodded. What choice did she have? "I'll be working tonight, but not until later. You should be back before I go."

Kyle looked disappointed. "But it's Christmas Day tomorrow. I wanted to wake up and find you here," he said.

"People still need nurses and doctors, even on Christmas Day. I've got a duty to them," Tara replied.

She always volunteered to work Christmas Eve. There would be a festive atmosphere at the clinic, and some of the women from the ladies' guild at the church would come and sing carols on the ward. Katie would be working, too, and the two of them always exchanged small gifts, along with Doctor Reardon and Peter. Tara had bought each of them a journal, bound in leather with a marbled design on the front. She knew Doctor Reardon wrote a diary and that Kate liked to press flowers.

"That's a real shame. But I suppose I could tell you your Christmas present early, couldn't I?" Kyle said, and Tara blushed.

"You didn't have to get me anything," she said, for the thought of a lavish gift filled her with dread.

The more gifts he showered on her, the more obligation she would feel toward him. Tara did not want to feel guilt for remaining in a situation she did not desire, and yet the longer this went on, the harder it would be to extract herself from it.

"But I wanted to, Tara. You mean so much to me. Besides, it's not really a gift," he replied. "You wanted to know what I was doing in Helena? Well, I've made certain investments there—in timber, crops, and several other ventures. They're set to provide a healthy return. I want to give you a secure future, Tara. To give us a secure future."

Tara's heart skipped a beat. This was the last thing she wanted to hear. He was already taking away her freedom and forcing a situation on her that she would find impossible to extract herself from. A proposal would come next—of that, she was certain. And what would happen when she refused?

"Oh… I see. Well, you didn't have to do that. I mean… I've got the homestead, and a secure job. My father left me money, and… it really wasn't necessary," she said, but he took hold of her arm, looking down at her and smiling.

"But once we're married, all those things become common. It's a husband's duty to take care of his wife," he replied. "That's why I've done this, Tara. I want to show you I'm responsible. That when it comes to my having oversight of the homestead, and of your money, you can trust me."

Tara didn't know what to do. It was all too much, but she could say nothing—only nod her head, desperately trying to think of a way to remove herself from this looming disaster.

"We can talk about it after Christmas," she said, and Kyle nodded.

"We'll talk about it once I'm back. There's no point wasting time. We both know how we feel," he said. "Now, I'd better go and find John. He'll be waiting for me."

Tara was left in fear, not knowing what to do. She was in too deep. She hadn't thought it would be like this—that the pleasure of their letters would lead to a situation where she felt completely out of her depth. Tara felt nothing for Kyle, except a growing sense of unease as to what his intentions really were. She was scared, and with John about to leave, it felt as though she was all alone, with no one to turn to and only fear ahead.

***

"All right, Stanley. Let's get you saddled up for the ride," John said, patting the horse's back before slinging the saddle over.

Kyle's horse stood patiently next to Stanley, his own saddlebags tied securely to the saddle. John's own possessions were meager and fit into one bag he'd tied to the saddle. He stroked Stanley's nose and the horse nuzzled against him, stomping its hoof impatiently.

"I know… you want to get on the trail. But I'm in no hurry," John said, sighing, as he glanced back toward the house through the stable door.

Through the window, he could see Tara and Kyle talking, and it made him sad to think he was about to leave all this behind. He would miss the homestead and the animals, the town of Freemont, the people he had met—though perhaps not the sheriff. But most of all, John would miss Tara. The thought of leaving brought tears to his eyes, and he clenched his fists, frustrated at the situation he found himself in.

And all on the chance of Kyle's words .

For a moment, he felt a flicker of doubt, though Kyle had no reason for lying. The matter would become clear enough when John reached Helena. It would be a simple enough task—find the sheriff and present himself as the man pictured on the posters.

And yet despite knowing this, that doubt persisted. He only had Kyle's word for it—the recollection of a picture on a poster in Helena—and John's suspicions grew. He knew nothing of Kyle. He was a stranger, as much to John as he was to Tara. What reason did he have for showing such concern? It was obvious he wanted rid of him.

He could've made the whole thing up, John realized, finally admitting to himself the suspicion rising in his mind.

He glanced at Kyle's horse. The saddlebags seemed unusually bulky. What was he taking on such a short ride?

Glancing back at the house, where he could see Tara and Kyle still talking in the parlor, John hobbled over to Kyle's horse, loosened the strap on the near side saddlebag, and looked inside. It contained equipment for the trail—an axe, a cooking pot, dry kindling, and a number of other useful bits and pieces.

While there was nothing suspicious, John noticed a pouch of ammunition, too. He had seen the pistols Kyle carried, though it was a sensible precaution to carry such things on the trail, and there was no reason to suspect Kyle of anything other than that.

What am I doing? He's the one she's going to be with, not you, John told himself. But his curiosity remained, and, having secured the strap on the saddlebag, he went to examine the other.

To his surprise, he found the saddlebag filled with papers—letters, envelopes, a journal. There was all manner of correspondence there, and personal effects, too. Opening the bag more widely, John pulled out some of the pieces of paper, blushing as he realized what they were. These were Kyle's letters from Tara—the correspondence of their romance.

But despite knowing what he was doing was wrong, John's curiosity got the better of him. He wanted to know the sort of things the pair had said to one another—how their romance had blossomed over thousands of miles of separation. He unfolded one of the letters and began to read.

My dearest Kyle, if I may call you that, and I say it because you are. Despite the many miles that separate us, I feel I know you better than anyone, and that you are "my dearest." It's only a few short weeks until we're together, and I think of you with the utmost fondness as you make your preparations to come west.

Freemont is waiting for you, and I'm waiting for you, too. I thank God every day for our finding one another, and I know you'll be blessed as you make the journey here. Know that I'm waiting for you, and remain ever your fondest, Tara.

The words brought a lump to John's throat. They were those of a woman entirely caught up in the hopeful joy of what was to come. There was no doubting her love for Kyle and the excitement with which she had awaited his arrival, and, leafing through several further letters, the sentiment was the same. There were dozens of envelopes—a correspondence lasting several months, and culminating in a last letter, received at a cattle station on the trail out West.

My dearest Kyle, the snows have come early this year, but from your last letter, I know you're making good progress toward Freemont. I hope I haven't been too late to catch you at Bison's Gorge and the cattle station there.

If the journey ahead is to be difficult, please send word and I'll know to expect you later than hoped. I was so moved by your last letter—your poor brother Michael, lost on the trail. He'd have been so proud of you for making the journey he wasn't able to…

As he read these words, John was struck by a sudden feeling—the welling up of a memory, of a certainty. He gasped, reading the name again.

Michael.

"Michael. My brother, Michael," he exclaimed out loud.

Kyle's horse snorted in surprise as John stared down at the letter, hardly daring to believe the certainty he was now filled with. The name had brought back a slew of memories, as though a floodgate had been opened and the past was now filling his mind with everything he had forgotten.

For a moment, it felt as though he would be overwhelmed by the torrent, and he struggled to make sense of the names and faces, the places and events now filling his mind.

Michael died on the trail… lost in a snowstorm… only the horse survived, limping back to… Maddison Station… Chicago… Fortune Street… the coffeehouse… the letters… Reverend Ezekiel and the mission church… The Good Samaritan…

The Chicago Chronicle … the advertisement… "Nurse and homesteader seeks reliable companionship, Freemont, Colorado, reply to box eight, Chicago Chronicle "… "Dear Miss Culden, I write to introduce myself, my name… Kyle Patrick."

"I'm Kyle Patrick," John exclaimed out loud, holding up the bundle of letters in disbelief.

He pulled the saddlebag from the horse's side, emptying the contents onto the stable floor. It was not only bits of papers, envelopes, and the journal, but trinkets and keepsakes, the intimate possessions of the man he now knew to be himself. Kyle Patrick was not Kyle Patrick. John was.

For a moment, he stared down at the life spilled out before him, trying to make sense of the memories still flooding back to him. The amnesia was gone, replaced by a certainty of memory— his memory. Among the pile of possessions, a glint caught his eye. It was a locket and, stooping down, he picked it up, opening it to reveal two miniature portraits—two children, one he now recognized as himself, and the other…

"Michael. That's my brother, Michael," John—Kyle—said out loud.

He held the locket up, not knowing whether to laugh or cry as he remembered everything about himself. His name was Kyle Patrick, of Fortune Street, Chicago. He owned a stake in a large farm, Maddison Station, on the trail leading west. He and his brother were successful farmers, wealthy from inheritance and the success of their business.

But tragedy had struck, and Kyle's brother, Michael, had died in a snowstorm on the trail. Kyle had been left heartbroken and, unable to continue running the farm himself, he had sold it and taken a house in Chicago.

It was loneliness that had led to his answering Tara's advertisement, and through their correspondence, Kyle had found a new sense of hope and meaning in his life. He had come to Freemont to make a fresh start, hoping to leave his sorrows behind.

And that's when it happened, he reminded himself, now knowing just who the man in the dream—the man who had threatened him, robbed him, and left him for dead had been.

"Kyle Patrick, that man in there," Kyle said out loud, glancing out of the stable door to where the other Kyle—whoever he really was—was still talking to Tara in the parlor.

He remembered it all now, but the dream had been mixed up. There had been no trees. It had happened on the trail above Freemont—in the very place where Tara had found him. There had been an ambush…

*

"Get out of my way… let me past," Kyle said, glaring at the man whose face was obscured behind a bandana pulled up over his nose, leaving only the slits of his eyes visible beneath the brim of his hat.

"And if I choose not to let you past?" the man replied, pulling a pistol from a holster at his belt and pointing it at Kyle, who recoiled.

"I don't have any money, and I don't have anything to give you. Now get out of my way," Kyle said, even as his heart was beating fast.

The man gestured with the gun, pointing to the edge of the trail.

"Put your hands up on the tree where I can see them. We'll see if you have anything worth taking," he replied.

The trail was lonely. Kyle had met no one all day, save for this solitary horseman who now stood before him, pointing a loaded pistol. He had no choice but to do as he was told, even as he now looked for a way to escape. He could jump the man, disarm him, at the risk of being shot—or he could allow him to take everything he had with him, his money, his possessions, his papers…

"Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?" Kyle demanded, but the man only gestured again with the pistol.

"Get your hands in the air. We'll see if you're telling the truth about what you've got," he said, and Kyle knew the moment had come for his decision.

As he turned, he made a sudden movement, springing on the man, as the pistol went off with a bang. He fell sideways, dodging the bullet, but a searing pain swept through Kyle's leg as it twisted with a snap.

He let out a cry, catching the man by the arm and pulling him over. They struggled, and Kyle pulled the bandana from the man's face, knocking his hat off as he did so, and revealing a black-haired man with a small scar along his hairline, his gray eyes glinting with anger as he raised his fist to strike.

"Get off me," Kyle cried out, struggling with the man.

But the pain in his leg was too great, and it was his assailant who had the advantage, raising his fist and striking Kyle across the face, once, twice, three times, before hauling him up and dragging him toward the edge of the trail.

"How do you like this?" he snarled, and he pushed Kyle with all his might down the scree, sending him tumbling towards the stream below.

Kyle let out a cry, calling for help, but as he fell, a sudden bump to the head brought dizziness with it. Slumping against a fallen tree, he lost consciousness.

***

And that's all I remember, Kyle realized, though the rest of the story was not difficult to assume.

In his saddlebags that day had been everything that now lay before him. It would have been the simplest thing in the world for the robber to assume the identity of a man who had traveled thousands of miles from the East to meet a woman who did not even know what he looked like.

When this imposter read through the letters, he must have realized the potential of passing himself off as the man she was expecting, and now Kyle could only imagine what his alter-ego was plotting.

For a few moments, he was too shocked to even believe that what had happened could have happened—and how easily he had been fooled into making the final moves of the imposter's plan. It must have come as a shock for the fake Kyle to realize the real Kyle was still alive and being cared for at the clinic. He shuddered to think what would have happened on the trail if the two of them had set off for Helena as planned.

He'd have killed me. I'm certain of it .

But as for what to do next, he was uncertain.

There was no doubt in Kyle's mind he had remembered. His amnesia was gone—the veil was lifted, replaced by a sense of certainty he hadn't believed possible. Reading Michael's name had been enough, and he was struck by the force of emotion he felt at the memory of his brother's death.

They had been the closest of friends, and losing him had brought Kyle to lowest depth, despairing he might never find happiness again. But Tara had changed that—she had given him hope, and he had come to Freemont intending to make a new start. How cruelly that had been taken away, and how close he had come to suffering the same fate as his brother.

Knowing he didn't have much time, Kyle hastily packed away the letters into the saddlebag before removing the fake Kyle's pistol from the other one. He loaded it, stowing it beneath his coat. Now, he could hear voices in the yard—Tara and Kyle discussing the journey.

"I won't be late. I'll turn back before it gets dark. I don't want to ride along the trail at night. You never know who's out there—especially if there's a gang of outlaws on the loose," the fake Kyle was saying.

His words brought back the memory of Sheriff Fenton's accusation. What if it was this man who was behind the robbery at the lockup? He would be perfectly placed to enact it, and would have had ample opportunity to observe the comings and goings in the town since his arrival. Kyle's heart skipped a beat. This was surely bigger than a deception of the heart.

Taking a deep breath, and ready to pull the pistol at the first sign of trouble, Kyle stepped out of the stable into the yard.

"Oh, there you are, John. We were just coming to find you. Is everything all right with the horses?" Tara asked.

Kyle nodded. "All ready, yes. I've saddled Stanley. And I checked over your horse, too, Kyle. The saddlebags needed tightening a bit. I've seen to it, for you."

The other Kyle nodded, narrowing his eyes with a slight suspicion.

"I see… I packed everything myself. You didn't need to check it. I keep the saddlebags loose. I find it helps the horse," he said.

"I'm sure John was just trying to be helpful," Tara said, glancing from one to the other as the two men faced one another.

"That's right. I was just trying to be helpful," Kyle replied, and he smiled at the imposter, his hand clenched around the locket.

The other Kyle nodded, holding up a cloth tied up with a piece of string.

"Tara's packed some food for us. We should get going. You'll want to reach Helena by nightfall and it's a good ride from here—twenty miles or so."

"Yes, I've remembered," Kyle replied.

Tara looked at him in surprise. "You've remembered? But that's wonderful, John. Do you remember your wife and children?" she asked, clasping her hands together as she spoke.

Now was the moment, and Kyle shook his head. "I couldn't possibly remember them, no. They don't exist."

The look on Tara's face changed, and the other Kyle sighed and shook his head.

"Come now, John. I told you, didn't I? Your wife and children are waiting for you in Helena. That's where we're going now—and if we don't get started soon, you'll be riding at night along the trail," he said. "Tara's just told me about an outlaw the bounty hunters are looking for. You don't want to get caught up with a man like that now, do you?"

Kyle smiled and shook his head. "No, I don't. But I don't think I will. Not on the trail, at least. Perhaps here…" he said, and he tossed the locket into the snow in front of him, where it fell open to reveal the two miniature portraits.

The look on the imposter's face now changed to anger, his eyes growing wide as he looked from the locket to Kyle and back.

"What's this?" Tara asked, stooping down to pick up the locket, even as the other Kyle pushed her out of the way.

She let out a cry, falling to the ground, and Kyle rushed to help her.

"It's all right," he said, but as he rose to his feet with his arm around Tara, he found himself staring into the barrel of a pistol.

"Give me the locket," the other man said, gesturing at Tara, who stared at him in horror.

"What's the meaning of this? I don't understand," she exclaimed.

Kyle put his arms out, shielding her from the pistol, holding the man's gaze defiantly.

"Enough of this. Tell her the truth. Who are you?" he demanded.

It was just like his dream, except now, he could see the man's face revealed. He remembered everything, and now he could feel nothing but anger and hatred toward the man who had tried—and almost succeeded—to steal everything from him. It was an astonishing revelation. His whole identity, assumed by another man for his own nefarious purposes.

"Get into the stable," the other Kyle said, gesturing toward the door.

"Tell me what's going on. What are you doing, Kyle? John's no threat to you. It's just a locket. Put the gun down," Tara said.

"This isn't Kyle," Kyle said. "I am."