Chapter 8

Chapter 8

"Good morning, Nurse Culden," Peter said as Tara hurried into the clinic yard. She was running late, and the clock on the mission station tower was just striking nine.

"Good morning, Peter… I didn't realize the time," Tara said. She had been distracted by her conversation with Kyle.

The orderly smiled. "I think you've made up enough time over the past few weeks. You work harder than anyone else here—even Doctor Reardon. Though don't tell him I said that," Peter said, and Tara laughed.

"I don't think he'd appreciate it. Is there any news on our stranger?" she asked, but Peter shook his head.

"Nothing new. Sheriff Fenton was just here with him, but I don't think he's remembered anything new. He's still a mystery," he said, and Tara sighed.

She had hoped there might have been some progress—a chance of memory returning, even if only partially. Was it possible for a person never to remember? Tara could only imagine how it would feel to be without any memories, and after thanking Peter, she hurried into the clinic, finding Katie sitting at the nurse's desk waiting for her.

"I'm glad you're here. I'm nearly asleep on my feet," Katie said, thrusting a pile of notes into Tara's hands.

"I'm sorry… I got distracted at home. I… I've got a visitor," Tara said.

Katie raised her eyebrows. The two of them were on friendly terms, though they were not friends as such. Katie, the daughter of Reverend McGuire, had a strong sense of right and wrong. Tara didn't know if she would approve of the idea of a mail-order groom.

"Family?" Katie asked, and Tara shook her head.

"No… a man from Chicago. We've been writing to one another for the past few months, and I invited him to come and stay for a while. He's got a room at the boarding house," she said, adding the last words hastily.

Katie smiled. "I'm happy for you, Tara. You work hard, and if a man from Chicago can bring you some happiness, I wish you well—though I'm not sure what my father would say about it."

"Well… we'll see what happens. He's feeding the animals as we speak. But you'd better get home. You'll be tired. I'll see you later," Tara said.

With Katie gone, Tara hurriedly read through the notes from the night before. One of the patients had been violently sick, another was complaining of cramps. Doctor Reardon would make his ward round in an hour, and that meant Tara was free to check on John Smith. She had been looking forward to seeing him, though she had hoped by now he might have remembered something more than just the immediate aftermath of his accident—or whatever it was that had happened to him.

"Good morning, John," Tara said, as she stepped into the ward a moment later.

The stranger was sitting up in bed, eating a bowl of porridge, and he smiled at her as she approached the bed. He set his bowl down on the bedside table.

"Good morning, Nurse Culden. Is it still cold out there?" he asked, and Tara nodded.

"Freezing. The snow's lying thick on the ground. But at least it's warm in here," Tara replied, glancing across at the stove where a bright fire was burning, a kettle boiling on top.

"I just had the sheriff here. He's making some enquiries, but I'm not holding out any hope. I just can't remember anything," he said, shaking his head sadly.

Tara pulled up a chair to the bedside and placed her hand reassuringly on his. It was warm to the touch, and he smiled at her with a look of resignation on his face, as though he was now beginning to accept the fact he might never remember anything about his past.

"I think you will. It's just going to take time, that's all. You've only been here a few days. Your notes say you're making good progress as far as the injuries are concerned. Broken bones take a while to mend, but the swelling on your leg's gone down, and the injury to your head's healing nicely."

She was trying to sound optimistic, hopeful of his making a full recovery, and yet Tara knew there was a very real possibility he might be forever without the memories of his past. She wondered how old he was—perhaps just a few years older than she—and whether he was married, or in love. Did he have children? Where had he come from? There were so many unanswered questions.

"Eventually, I'll have to leave the clinic—whether I can remember or not," he said. "But could I really make a new start without knowing anything about my past?

This was a question Tara could not answer, though she wanted to believe it was possible. She herself was on the brink of a new beginning. The arrival of Kyle, and the relief it had brought to her situation, marked the opening of a new chapter for them both, and Tara was looking to the future with optimism.

"I think you could learn to, yes. It won't be easy, but we'll help you, I promise," she said, patting his hand.

He smiled at her and nodded. He had a kind face, and the sort of smile that lit up his eyes and changed his whole countenance. He was an attractive man, and Tara felt certain there was someone, somewhere, waiting for him—missing him. It brought a tear to her eye, and she turned away, knowing she had no right to get upset when it was him who was suffering.

"You've already done so much for me. I can't ask you to do anything more," he said, but Tara shook her head.

"A nurse always wants to do more. And I think you'll find Freemont a nice place to live. If you decide to settle here. It's a nice town—though I suppose I would say that, wouldn't I? I can introduce you to my friends, and you'll meet new people…" she said, still trying to sound optimistic about the future.

He shrugged, giving her a weak smile in response. "We'll see. I just… wish I could remember," he said, and again she squeezed his hand.

"Give it time. Little by little, you will."

"But I was thinking… if I can't remember my own past, I'd like to hear about yours. What made you become a nurse?" he asked.

Tara was not expecting this question, but she was only too happy to sit and talk to him. Despite his lack of memory, he had an easy way about him—a familiarity, even. It felt to Tara as though they had known one another far longer than they had. She felt at ease in his company, and it seemed he found hers a comfort, too.

"Oh… well, I grew up on my father's homestead. I was always around animals as a child. My father took them in—strays and unwanted farm animals. He loved animals, and that brushed off on me, too," she said, smiling at the memory of her father.

He had been a kind and gentle man, with a quiet disposition, but always with a listening ear to anyone who needed it. But it was with the animals he was most at ease. He would talk to them, and Tara could remember feeling as though the animals really understood him, even talked back in their own simple way.

"So you grew up caring for others?" he asked, and Tara smiled.

"I remember one night very clearly. I was fast asleep, but for some reason I woke up. I called out to my father, but he wasn't there," she said, recalling the incident as though it was yesterday. "My mother died when I was very young, and it was just him and I as I was growing up. Anyway, I got up and went downstairs. I could see a light out in the stable—a lamp hanging at the door. I went out, and my father was there.

One of the horses was sick, a mare that had just given birth to a foal. He was sitting with her, cradling her head in his hands and gently stroking her. There was nothing he could do to make her better, but he stayed with her the whole night, and so did I. I'll never forget that night. The mare died, but she died knowing someone cared. That's why I became a nurse. I wanted to help other people. I hated the thought of anyone suffering alone."

John nodded. There were tears in his eyes, and he looked embarrassed as he brushed them away.

"I'm sorry… it's just what you said. Well, now I understand why you did what you did for me. You weren't going to let me suffer alone," he said.

"No, I wasn't." She smiled. "I'm a nurse, and it's my job to look after people. I wanted to help you, and I still do. Your injuries will heal, and you'll start to remember things, too. I know it's hard at the moment, but… give it time."

Her heart ached for him, and now she could only pray it would not be long before he remembered something—anything—about who he was and where he came from. Tara was determined to help, and the more time she spent with him, the more she was growing fond of him.

They were fast becoming friends, and the fact it was she who had found him had created a bond between them. It was clear John would be forever grateful to her for what she had done for him, and now, as Doctor Reardon appeared at the ward door to start his round, John thanked her again.

"You've done so much for me, Nurse Culden," he said, still with his hand clasped in hers.

"Good morning," Doctor Reardon said, raising his eyebrows at the sight of Tara sitting at John's bedside with her hand in his.

Tara rose to her feet, blushing as she smoothed down her uniform. "Good morning, Doctor Reardon," she said, clearing her throat.

"And how's the patient this morning?" he asked, turning his attention to John.

"Well… I'm still breathing," John said, shrugging his shoulders.

Doctor Reardon scribbled something on John's notes, raising his eyebrows as he did so. "Oh, you're certainly doing that, Mr. Smith. But no further memories triggered? Did the sheriff's visit help?" he asked, but John shook his head.

"No, it didn't," he said.

Tara knew Thomas would do his best to help John in any way he could. She had intended to call on him and offer her help, but Kyle's arrival had distracted her. She resolved to do so on her way home that evening.

"Well, I've got another idea for you. I see you've just been talking to Nurse Culden here. I want you to write down everything you remember about the conversation you've just had. Write it out just as you remember it, or just note down whatever you can. I think it'll help you. Remembering immediate details might help you remember something more," he said.

It seemed a sensible suggestion, and Doctor Reardon instructed Tara to bring a pencil and paper for John to write on. She was under strict instructions not to help him, and Doctor Reardon ushered her away to assist him with the next patient.

"I'll see you later," Tara said, handing John the paper and pencil.

He smiled at her and nodded.

"I don't think I'll have any trouble remembering our conversation," he said, and Tara blushed.

She knew she shouldn't get attached to a patient in this way, but there was something different about John, and as she followed Doctor Reardon to the next bed, Tara found herself hoping she would soon learn more about him, just as he had learned more about her.

***

One of the horses was sick—a mare that had just given birth to a foal. He was sitting with her, cradling her head in his hands and gently stroking her. There was nothing he could do to make her better, but he stayed with her the whole night, and so did I. I'll never forget that night, John wrote, recalling Tara's description of the night she had known she wanted to be a nurse.

It had been deeply moving; even writing it now brought a tear to his eye. He had had no difficulty in recalling the conversation between them. It had been wonderful to hear Tara speak so passionately about her reasons for becoming a nurse, and there was no doubt it was her vocation. John admired her.

She had a sense of duty and conviction. She was principled and hardworking, and the more time he spent with her, the more those qualities shone through.

Now, what else did she say… what did I say? he asked himself, the pencil hovering over the page.

He was about to start writing again, recalling the rest of Tara's story about the horse, when a sudden image flashed across his mind. It was only there for a moment, but it caused John to startle, gasping as he realized it was a thought—a memory—of something he had forgotten.

There had been a piece of paper, a letter, and a quill and ink. He was writing something. He was writing a letter, but to who? Furrowing his brow, he tried to recall the memory, to inhabit it as he had just done.

Come on, John… you can remember more. I was writing to someone. I was writing a letter. What was I writing? Who was I writing to? he asked himself, but the memory was frozen.

He could see it, but it was no longer happening in his mind. It was a memory of a memory. John cursed under his breath.

It was something at least… but I just can't remember anything more about it. I was writing to someone… and it felt familiar. He turned back to the page on which he had written down his conversation with Tara.

He could recall the whole conversation—every detail—and yet that moment he had just remembered was no more than a fleeting glimpse into his past. It frustrated him, even as it gave him hope. If he could remember one thing, then surely, he could remember another.

It was the act of writing that had brought back the memory, and now he continued to write down the conversation, hoping it might give rise to something more. But when he had finished, there were no more memories, only the words on the page, and that single thought, frozen in time.

John felt disappointed, and yet he reminded himself this was something, rather than nothing. And it was to this hope he clung, feeling grateful once again to Tara for being the one to help bring that memory back.