Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"Buryville, Montana—the end of the line," a voice called out through the darkness, and Kyle Patrick awoke with a start.

The engine had shuddered to a halt, and the carriage he was sitting in creaked into submission, the wood and metal scraping against each other as the other passengers looked up from their seats, bleary-eyed and sleepy.

"What time is it?" one of them asked.

"Past midnight. I heard a clock strike the hour when we passed through Bellhaven, and I've been asleep since then. It'll be past two o'clock," another said.

Several of the passengers groaned as the same voice—that of the guard—called out again.

"End of the line. All change. Everybody off," he shouted.

Kyle stretched out his arms and sighed. To say he had been comfortable would have been a lie, but at least he had been asleep, and now that sleep had been rudely interrupted. While there was no heating in the carriage, in the company of the dozen others who had taken the train as far as Buryville that day, the conditions had become tolerable.

Kyle peered out of the window across the dark platform, where only a solitary lamp burned by the station sign, as other passengers disembarked. It would be freezing outside, and he wasn't looking forward to spending the rest of the night trudging around an unfamiliar town.

"And what are we supposed to do at this time? I doubt the boarding house proprietors will thank anyone who knocks them up at two o'clock in the morning," one of the other passengers said.

But it seemed there was no choice but to disembark, and while Kyle had been expecting to stop at the small town of Buryville on the edge of the Montana Territory, he hadn't expected to do so at such an ungodly hour.

"Is there a mail coach going east?" he asked the train guard as he stepped down onto the platform.

"Outside the saloon, but it won't be leaving for a few hours yet," the man replied.

Kyle had only a few meager possessions in his backpack, and only his coat to wrap around him. As he stepped down from the train, the chill of the night air hit him, and he shivered, pulling the coat tightly around him to keep out the cold, and wishing he had brought an extra layer.

"Let's go to the saloon. If it's still open," one of the other passengers said, and a group of them trudged away through the darkness, leaving Kyle standing on the platform next to the cooling engine.

He had never been so far west, and now he looked around him, wondering what lay ahead on his journey.

The mail coach to Freemont. That's what she said, Kyle thought, remembering the words in Tara's letter.

Setting out from Chicago, he hadn't entirely appreciated the enormity of what he was now undertaking. But as he stood on the platform at Buryville, faced with the prospect of an even longer journey ahead, Kyle began to wonder if he was doing the right thing. He had already journeyed over a thousand miles, and all for the sake of a few letters exchanged with a woman he barely knew anything about.

Tara had been the one to suggest he make the journey. She needed help on her homestead, and she had assured Kyle there were plenty of other opportunities for employment, too. He knew nothing about Freemont, except it had once been the limits of the frontier and even now was a journey of a considerable undertaking.

But this is what you wanted, isn't it? An adventure? Well, that's what you've got, he told himself, stamping his feet and blowing into his hands to keep out the cold.

The lamp on the station platform was flickering, and if it went out, Kyle would be plunged into darkness. He still had several hours before the mail coach left and, with nothing else to do, he decided to follow the other passengers to the saloon— at least there he could be warm and get a drink. Picking up his backpack, he trudged off through the snow, still wondering if he had made the right decision and curious to see what would come next.

***

"Thank you, Maisy… but did you have to wake me up by jumping on me quite so heavily?" Tara said, opening her eyes to find her ginger cat sitting on top of her.

Yawning, she turned over, pulling the blankets more tightly around her against the cold. The clock on the dresser had just struck nine o'clock, and it would soon be time for Tara to get up and get ready to go the clinic. But her bed was warm, and the thought of stepping out into the chill of the evening air was far from appealing. She had had only a few hours' sleep and would gladly have stayed in bed for the rest of the night.

But you've got patients to see to, she told herself, and she sat up in bed and reached out to strike a match and light the lamp at her bedside.

Maisy let out a loud meow, jumping down from the bed and crossing to the stove, where the remnants of the fire Tara had lit earlier smoldered. Throwing back the covers, Tara got out of bed, taking a deep breath against the cold and hurrying to stoke up the fire and warm the room. The last of her supper still lay on the table, next to the letter she had received from Kyle. Tara smiled at the sight of it, crossed over to the table, and began to read.

I left Chicago with just a few possessions in a backpack. It's a long journey west but I'm pleased to be making it, if only to at last meet you…

Her heart skipped a beat at the thought of his imminent arrival. She was nervous, and she knew he would be, too. They had written to one another of their desire for a new beginning, and Tara had held nothing back from him.

She had told him of her difficulties—of the death of her father, and the burden of responsibility she now felt—and of the difficulties of living life so far from the east. But she had spoken, too, of the joys—of the opportunities life on the frontier presented.

Kyle had told her he was eager for a new adventure, and his letters had spoken of an optimism for what lay ahead. But the question of whether they would really get along remained, and only time would tell if Kyle's arrival would be the saving grace Tara needed.

I'm going to try my hand at making a bobsled. It would be useful for pulling goods to and from the mercantile, he had written in his letter, and he had also informed her he intended to learn whatever was necessary to help on the homestead.

His words had come as a relief to Tara. She was struggling to look after the animals, along with her responsibilities at the clinic, and now she hurried to get ready, feeding the chickens, and throwing a bucket of swill into the trough for Bentley. Maisy followed her impatiently, but it was only when the other chores were seen to that the cat got her saucer of milk.

"There, now. I'll see you later… tomorrow morning, I mean. Oh, I don't even know what day it is at the moment," Tara said, yawning as she wrapped a shawl around herself.

It was time to leave for the clinic, and, having dampened down the stove and checked all was in order, Tara stepped back out into the chill of the night. The rest of the town was now going to bed, though there was still a ruckus coming from the saloon as Tara hurried by. She had been thinking about John Smith, and now she wondered if the mysterious patient had woke up yet—and if he had remembered anything.

"Is Stanley all right, Peter?" Tara asked, as she met the orderly at the door of the clinic.

"I've just given him some oats, Nurse Culden. He's perfectly happy. Will you take him back home in the morning?" the orderly asked, and she nodded.

"If I can keep my eyes open," she said, yawning as she made her way inside.

It was quiet in the evenings. Doctor Reardon was strict when it came to patient rest, and he insisted on quiet after nine o'clock. Tara went to relieve the other nurse on duty, Katie, asking her if John Smith was awake yet.

"He's sitting up in bed," Katie said, "but he still can't remember anything. I'm not sure what we're going to do to help him. It's as though part of his mind just disappeared."

"I think it's just a matter of time—of waiting for him to remember, rather than trying to force it," Tara replied.

She was anxious to see the man for herself, and having caught up on the goings-on at the clinic and with the patients over the previous few hours, she made her way into the ward. A lamp was burning at the far end, and several of the patients were already fast asleep and snoring loudly. John was sitting up in bed, and as Tara approached, he looked up and smiled with recognition on his face.

"I was wondering when you'd come back," he said, and Tara smiled back at him, pulling up a chair to sit at his bedside.

"Doctor Reardon told me to go home. I'd be no good to anyone if I was tired, though I can't say I got much sleep," she said.

"I think he gave me a sedative. My head feels all… it's hard to describe… like clouds. Does that make sense? It's all fluffy," John said, and Tara nodded.

She had heard other patients describe similar feelings after a concussion. It was as though a fog had descended and only certain thoughts would come into focus, leaving others obscured from view.

"I think it'll clear—given time. Do you still not remember anything at all?" Tara asked. "I spoke to the sheriff. He's going to make some enquiries. Perhaps there's someone in Freemont who's waiting for you. I'm sure you'd remember if you saw them. You might have relatives here, or someone you've come to visit."

John nodded. Tara had thought of all manner of possibilities relating to who he was, but now another thought occurred to her, and she glanced over to where his coat lay on the chair next to the bed.

"They already checked my pockets," John said, anticipating what Tara was about to say.

"Oh… that's a shame. No papers? No documents?" she asked, and he shook his head.

"Nothing. Not even a railroad ticket. I don't know where I've come from or where I was supposed to be going. I'm a mystery to myself as much as to everyone else," he said, and a sad look came over his face.

Tara reached out and put her hand on his. She wanted to comfort him and offer him some reassurance. "A nurse doesn't just mend broken bones. A nurse listens, too," Doctor Reardon had once told her, yet it was hard to know how best to listen when the patient didn't even know what they were saying.

Would John ever remember who he was?

"But mysteries can be solved," she said. "You don't have to worry about it now. It's only been a day. It's a funny thing, memory. Sometimes I forget things I know I should remember, and at other times, I can remember the smallest details. It doesn't always make sense."

"You've been very kind. I owe you my life," John said, and he squeezed her hand in his as Tara blushed.

"I was just in the right place at the right time. That's all. But you should try to get some sleep. The more rest you get, the quicker you'll recover. And perhaps your memory might come back sooner, too. Can I get you some hot milk with cinnamon? It'll help you sleep," Tara said, and John nodded, still smiling at her.

"I'd like that. Thank you," he replied.

Tara went off to warm the milk. She still had ever so many questions, but they were not ones John could answer—not yet, at least. Patience was what was needed.

Returning with the milk a short while later, Tara found John with his eyes closed. He looked ever so peaceful lying there in the flickering lamplight, and rather than disturb him, she set the cup of milk down on the locker next to the bed.

"Sleep well," she whispered and slipped away, intending to visit him again before her shift was over.

Several new patients were admitted that night—a man suffering from the cold, a woman with a broken ankle, and a child with vomiting. Tara was kept busy, but that was how she liked it. The work of a nurse was varied, and no two nights were the same. By the time dawn was breaking, she had barely had time to sit down. Finally, she returned to John's bedside, finding him awake and sitting up.

"Is it time for you to leave?" he asked, looking disappointed.

"Only for a few hours. I'll go home and get some rest, then I'll go out on my rounds. I've got to go up onto the pass to the Johnson ranch. That's where I was coming from when I found you yesterday. I'll ask them if they saw you—though why you'd have been coming down from the mountains, I don't know," she said.

John shrugged. "I don't know, either. I don't know the name Johnson, though," he said.

"Do you know anyone's name? Can you remember a relative or friend?" Tara asked, and he shook his head.

"I can remember your name—Tara. It's a pretty name. But that's the only one I know."

Tara nodded. The fact he remembered her name was something, even as it seemed he had no definite memories of the time before his accident. He knew words, of course, but facts eluded him, and Tara didn't want to confuse him further by asking questions. She would go to the sheriff's office and see if any progress had been made in the investigation, but first, she wanted some sleep.

"Well, it's a start, and I'm glad you remember it. We're calling you John. John Smith," Tara said, and John laughed.

"You could've come up with something more creative. I could choose my own name… I'll be… George Washington," he said, and Tara laughed.

"I think that name's already taken," she replied, raising her eyebrows.

At that moment, Doctor Reardon appeared at the ward door.

"What's all this?" he asked, and Tara blushed.

"Just checking on the patient, Doctor Reardon," she said, knowing her superior wouldn't like her fraternizing with the patients in such an easy manner.

"She's trying to help me remember, Doctor," John said. "And she's certainly helping."

Doctor Reardon nodded. "All right, but I think it's time you went home now, Tara. You've put in another long night. I'll ask Katie to go up to the Johnson ranch. Come back this evening once you're rested," he said.

Tara knew better than to argue, and secretly she was pleased to have the rest of the day to herself. She said goodbye to John before heading out to the stable, where she found Peter brushing Stanley down in one of the stalls.

"He's much better for a good rest, Nurse Culden, and I think you will be, too," the orderly said.

Tara nodded. She could barely keep her eyes open. Taking Stanley's reins, she led him out of the stable and across the yard through the snow.

***

John watched Tara leave, smiling to himself at the sight of her pretty figure disappearing along the corridor from the ward. He had enjoyed their conversation, and the chance to thank her for helping him. But still he was no closer to remembering where he was from or what had happened to him. He could not even remember his name, though he felt fairly certain it was not John.

I could be anyone, he thought, imagining himself as some important man from the east—perhaps even the President of the United States himself. The thought made him smile. I think it's a certainty you're not the President of the United States, he told himself, but as for who he really was…

"Can I get you anything?" the other nurse—Katie—asked him, and John shook his head.

"No, thank you. I think I'll try to get some sleep. I'm exhausted," he said, and she looked at him sympathetically.

"You've had nasty injury, Mr. Smith. It'll take time before you feel better. Just call for me if you need anything," she replied.

"There is one thing… Miss Culden—Nurse Culden—has she always lived in Freemont?" he asked, and Katie nodded.

"All her life, yes. She's just inherited her father's homestead. She's got lots of animals she takes care of, not to mention the work she does here. I don't know how she has time for it," the nurse replied, shaking her head.

"It's just… there's something familiar about her. I don't know… I can't put my finger on it," he said.

As he and Tara had talked, it had felt to John as though he knew her, even as he felt certain he did not. Perhaps it was the fact she was the only definite memory he had, and yet the more he thought about her, the more convinced he was of something more between them. Katie smiled at him.

"She's the one thing you remember for certain. It's only natural you feel a familiarity with her. But until we know the truth about you, try not to think too hard about it. Get some rest," she said and, patting his hand, went off to tend to one of the other patients, leaving John alone with his thoughts.

Again, he tried to remember something—anything—about himself. But the only definite memory was Tara. He closed his eyes, yawning, and fell into a deep sleep.

***

"Get out of my way… let me past," John said. He glared at the man, whose face was obscured behind a bandana pulled up over his nose, with 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 John, who recoiled.

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

The man gestured with the gun, pointing toward a tree at 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. John had met no one all day, save for this solitary horseman who now stood before him, pointing a loaded pistol at him. He had no choice but to do as he was told, even as he looked for a way to escape. He could jump the man, disarm him, but 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?" John demanded, but the man only gestured toward the tree.

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

As he turned toward the tree, he made a sudden movement, springing on the man as the pistol went off with a bang.