Chapter 6

Chapter 6

"I'm glad to see you awake. How did you sleep?" Doctor Reardon asked as he approached John's bedside.

"I keep having these vivid dreams. I don't know where they come from. They feel very real, though. I'm on the trail, and there's man with a gun. He's threatening to shoot me. He makes me stand up against a tree and… I don't know… Do you think it's true?" John asked.

He had had the same dream three times now, and never with any hint as to who the man was or whether what John was dreaming about was true. When he was awake, he couldn't remember anything beyond what he had seen for himself in the dream, and even those details were sketchy.

Doctor Reardon nodded his head. "That's very interesting. I wouldn't say it's necessarily real. Dreams, as much as we know about them, are funny things. Details get mixed up. They don't necessarily tell us the truth. We might dream about a person we've met but place them in an entirely different situation to the one we know to be the truth," he said. "The problem you have is not knowing where the truth of what you're dreaming lies. You simply don't know if this man, this situation, this place all fits together."

Again, John tried to remember something beyond the images in his head. He wanted to be certain what he was seeing was real. But the harder he tried, the more confused he became.

"But can we dream about something we've never experienced?" he asked, and Doctor Reardon laughed.

"Certainly, that's how our imagination works. We dream dreams beyond ourselves all the time. Just don't go thinking it's a memory. That's the road to madness," he said.

"But… I feel certain there's something in it. It's so vivid. During the dream, at least. It's hard to explain. I'm certain I've seen that man before. And being robbed… well, all my possessions are gone, aren't they? Maybe I was robbed," John said.

He felt as though Doctor Reardon was dismissing him out of hand. John was trying his best to remember, and yet the more he tried, the more confused he got. But some things remained certain to him—words, sentences, ways of thinking. If he could remember some things, then surely the rest was waiting to be revealed. He was determined to cling to what few images of the past he had, as much as it felt uncomfortable to remember a robbery and a holdup.

"Perhaps you were. But I've known patients to invent all manner of stories that simply weren't true. I've told you already: the mind, it's a strange thing," Doctor Reardon said. "But there's something I want you to try."

He produced a notepad and a piece of charcoal from behind his back, handing them to John, who looked at them curiously.

"What do you want me to do?" John asked.

"I want you to draw. It doesn't matter what. Just draw whatever comes into your mind. A landscape, a person, a situation, even," he said.

John didn't know if he could draw—he might have been an artist by trade, or perhaps he had never once set to work on a drawing. Taking the notepad, he thought for a moment, wondering if what he drew would have a bearing on what Doctor Reardon thought of him.

"Can I draw my dream? It's fading now. It's happened the last two times, too. When I wake up, I can see everything perfectly. But it's as though a fog comes down and I start to forget," he said. "If I could just draw it while I remember, perhaps that might help me remember other details, too."

The doctor nodded. "You can draw whatever you want, John. But I'd prefer it if you concentrated on what comes naturally to mind," he said.

John knew better than to press the matter. He feared being declared mad. If his memory did not return, he would surely be confined to a clinic or even a sanitorium. The thought of it filled him with dread, even as he still could not remember anything about himself or where he came from.

"I'll try. I promise," he said, and Doctor Reardon gestured toward the open notepad.

"I'll come back later and see how you're getting on. But don't preoccupy yourself with dreams, John. It's what's real that matters," he said.

John was left alone with the open notepad and, looking down at the page, he pondered what to draw. The image of the man with the bandana over his face was still there, and yet it was beginning to fade, and soon it would require another dream to summon it to the vividness of his first waking moments.

He thought about the landscape on the trail. There had been snow, and high mountains towering above. There were trees, too—the tree he had been forced to hold his hands up against, and others lining the trail.

And a stream… that's right. There was a stream. It was frozen over, and I was following it along the trail. He began to sketch the scene as it appeared in his mind.

He worked quickly, the charcoal scratching across the page, as now the picture came to life. John could imagine himself there. He could hear the sound of the wind in the trees and smell the scent of pine on the air. It had been cold, his breath rising in plumes as he had walked… or had there been a horse?

The details remained unclear, and John didn't know if he was looking down on the scene as though detached, or right there in the center of it. Perhaps he was not even the one being robbed, and only an observer…

But I'm certain this is real, he said to himself as he set aside the notepad and sighed.

Closing his eyes, he tried to remember, willing himself to think of a detail as yet unrevealed. But there was nothing except a gathering fog, growing ever thicker. It was as though his mind simply did not want him to remember, or was keeping something hidden from him.

Glancing again at the picture a few moments later, he decided to try again, but this time he would draw something he was certain of. An immediate subject came to mind, and now he took up the notepad and began to sketch. Doctor Reardon returned after about half an hour, nodding as John showed him the first of the pictures in the notepad.

"And this is what you think you saw in the dream?" he said.

There was a dismissive tone to his voice, even as John told him he felt certain this was what he had seen.

"I know it's right. It's what I remember, at least," he said.

"All right," he replied, asking for no further detail. "And the next picture? Is it something you remember for certain?"

John nodded and, turning the page on the notepad, revealed a picture of Tara. Doctor Reardon raised his eyebrows.

"Nurse Culden? What made you draw her?"

John did not immediately have an answer to the question. The doctor had told him to draw something, and Tara was the only true memory he had. He could picture her face, her smile, the way she had looked at him in those first few moments. Alone and injured, John had feared he would die, and he owed Tara his life. She had saved him. If he was going to draw anyone, it was surely going to be her.

"I… well, she saved me, didn't she? If it wasn't for her, I'd have no memories at all. I'd be dead," he said, and Doctor Reardon nodded.

"I'm sure she'll be very flattered. But didn't I warn you about getting too attached? You don't know who you are, John. For all you know, you've got a wife and children waiting for you.

Perhaps they're even here, in Freemont, though no one's come forward. I think Sheriff Fenton might be coming to see you in the next day or so. Maybe drawing wasn't such a good idea," he said, and he reached out to take the notepad from John, who held it back and shook his head.

"No… I want to keep drawing. It's helping me. I'm not getting attached to anyone. But you asked me to draw my memories, and this is what happened," he said.

The doctor looked skeptical, but he nodded in agreement.

"All right. Keep the notepad, but try to draw something from further back. Even if it's just a tree, or a house, or a vague thought of a person. Little by little, you might start to remember," he said.

But as John stared down at the next page of the notepad, he could think only of Tara, of the pretty face of the woman who had come to his aid.

***

Well, I suppose I should go to work… it just doesn't feel right leaving all these chores to do, Tara thought as she stood on the porch looking across the yard to the stable, where Stanley watched her from his stall.

Tara had awoken early but, remembering Kyle's promise, had lain in bed far longer than was usual. She was tired. The past few days had taken their toll, and Kyle's arrival had given her something more to think about. And yet the more she thought about Kyle, the gladder she felt about his presence.

It was as though a burden had been lifted from her, a weight of responsibility relieved. Since the death of her father, Tara had been trying her best to manage the expectations placed on her. But with her responsibilities as a nurse coupled with those for the animals, Tara was exhausted. To know she now had Kyle to help her was a relief beyond anything she could have hoped for.

"I'll see you later, Stanley. Make sure you show Kyle what to do," Tara called out, waving to the horse, who whinnied as though to remind her he had not yet been fed.

But as she stepped through the gate, and out onto the snow-covered street, Tara caught sight of Kyle himself, pulling on his boots on the boarding house porch. He waved to her, and she hurried across to him, smiling as he rose to his feet.

"Good morning. I was just about to come over and see to the animals. I hope I'm not late?" he said, and Tara shook her head.

"Not at all, no. It's so kind of you to do this. It really is. I'm just on my way to the clinic now. I want to see if our mysterious stranger has remembered anything. But I won't be late. We could eat together later on, if you like?" she said, and he nodded.

"I'd like that. Shall I get something from the mercantile? I could check what you've got and get in some supplies," he said.

Once again, Tara was taken aback by his kindness. She couldn't believe he was so willing to help, and always with a smile, too. Nothing was too much trouble, or so it seemed.

"That's very kind of you. Please, make yourself at home. Help yourself to whatever you want. I keep a little money in a tin by the stove. Use that to buy whatever you want from the mercantile," she said, but Kyle shook his head.

"I've got money. Don't worry. But you'd better get going or you'll be late," he said.

"I wish I could stay here all day. There's so much I want to ask you, and I'm sure you've got lots of questions for me, too," Tara said, but Kyle placed his hand on her arm and smiled.

"There's plenty of time for questions later. Now, you get to work, and I'll see to the animals. There's no rush to come back. I'll see to everything," he said, and Tara smiled back at him.

She wasn't used to having someone else doing things for her. The Fentons had been unfailingly kind since the death of her father, but they had their own lives to lead and their own responsibilities to see to. But to have someone like Kyle was a dream come true, and Tara was convinced the risk of the mail-order groom had been worth it…

"All right… thank you. You don't know how much this means. I've not stopped these past few months, but you being here… well, it's going to make such a difference," she said.

"I only want to help," he said and, patting her arm, pointed her in the direction of the clinic. "I'll see you tonight."

Tara smiled to herself as she made her way down the street. He was so kind and considerate. And handsome, too.

That was a risk. I didn't know what to expect. He could've been a monster to look at . Now, despite knowing pride was a sin, she thought about what Gina would say when she met Kyle for the first time.

Tara knew her best friend would be jealous, though she would make some quip to disguise the fact. Tara didn't want to fall out with Gina over a man, but there could be no denying she had struck gold with Kyle's arrival.

She'll probably find something wrong with him. Or she won't trust him.

Her thoughts turned to the stranger at the clinic, and as she hurried through the gate into the clinic yard, she wondered if he had remembered anything more about himself than he had the day before.