Читать книгу: «His Forgotten Fiancée»

Chapter One

Oregon City

Oregon Territory, 1851

“Who am I?”

Liza Fitzpatrick dropped the cleaning rag onto the counter of the dry goods store and spun around. A man stood in the doorway, his rough, working-class clothes soaked through. He was staring at her as if she were the first woman he’d ever seen.

Ten steps to the back room, half a minute to grab Pa’s rifle. She might be able to make it. Sober, the long-legged man could easily outpace her. But not the way he was swaying from side to side. It was getting dark outside, and she found it difficult to guess his age in the light from the single lantern, but beneath the beard and the bedraggled brown hair that fell to his shoulders, he looked under thirty.

“Well?” Impatience edged his tone like a well-honed knife.

She cleared her throat. “Um...good evening. Mr. Vandehey, three doors down, serves liquor—”

“That’s the last thing I need.” He sagged against the door frame, his head drooping.

She took a couple of cautious steps closer, to get a better look at the man. Red streaks trailed down his forehead. “You’re hurt!”

His head came up. “Obviously.” Those thick eyebrows could have been designed to scowl at her. His dark eyes woke the memory of a pain that she had thought buried safely away. Recognition twisted inside her like a knife plunged straight into her heart. He said, “Do you know who I am?”

“You don’t know?” She stared at him. This encounter was starting to take on the unreal qualities of a nightmare. That was ironic, considering she had been dreaming of this moment for months. She had imagined all the different ways the scene would play out—or she thought she had.

“I am trying to be patient, madam.” The man spoke with a cultured accent at odds with his wild mountain-man appearance. “I would appreciate the courtesy of an answer to my one—simple—question. Do you know who I am?”

“Yes,” she said. “You are the man I am going to marry.”

He swayed against the door frame, sliding slowly down to the ground in a faint.

Liza had thought she would never see him again.

She looked down at the man sprawled on the floor. His eyes were shut, dark lashes long against his pale skin. Liza had a thousand questions that needed answers, but now was not the time, not when Matthew Dean lay passed out at her feet.

Her emotions were in a whirl. She had been waiting for this day for over a year, hoping for it, praying for it, sometimes almost dreading it. And now that he had finally come back to her, it didn’t seem real. She crouched down, pushing up his sleeve to put her fingers against his wrist. His skin was cold, but his pulse beat strongly against her hand. For a moment he responded to her touch, his fingers curving to grasp her hand. He murmured something under his breath, and then his hand drooped.

She didn’t know whether she should laugh or cry. He had been gone for so long, without a word. Why had he come back now?

Her mother had always told her that the Lord never sent you anything unless He had faith in your ability to withstand it. Sometimes, she wished the Lord didn’t have quite so much faith in her.

She fetched Jim Barnes from the livery stable on the corner to help her get the unconscious man into the bed in the back room. Jim cleaned him up while Liza dug up some dry clothes. Mr. McKay, the owner of the dry goods store, was shorter and much wider, but his homespun trousers and red-checked shirt would have to do. Matthew’s clothes weren’t merely damp, they were soaked through. She rubbed the rough, sodden fabric between her fingers, then spread the clothes out by the fireplace in the front room. They hadn’t had rain in weeks. He must have fallen into the river to get this wet.

Jim came out of the back room, shutting the door quietly behind him. “Restless man, won’t hardly lie still,” he said. “Like there’s something burning a hole in him.”

“How badly is he hurt? Memory loss sounds pretty serious. I should probably send for the doctor.” She frowned, torn between worry and frustration.

“Doc Graham won’t be back until tomorrow, but I don’t think he’s in bad shape,” Jim reassured her. “Just that cut on his head, which has already stopped bleeding. Looks like he got roughed up some, is all.”

“I appreciate your help.” Liza hesitated. Jim, placid and unflappable, had accepted her explanation that the man was her fiancé without any questions. But other people would be more curious, asking questions she did not know the answers to. I need to know where I stand. I need to know why he came back after all this time. “I’d appreciate it if you did not mention this incident to anyone. Not tonight.”

He gave her a look that was unexpectedly shrewd. “Anyone like Mr. Brown, you mean? I won’t say a word to him about it, but I’ll send Granny Whitlow over to keep you company. Wouldn’t be proper, otherwise.”

Matthew was hardly in a position to pose a threat to any woman at the moment, but Liza nodded. “Thank you, Jim.”

After he left, she began to tidy up, sweeping the floor and straightening the goods on the shelves. The dry goods store was the front room of the McKays’ home. It still had the original puncheon floor and the cat-and-clay fireplace that was used for cooking and to heat the house, but the walls were filled with shelves of nails, rope and harnesses, as well as the latest bolts of fabric off ships from Boston and New York. The back room was the family’s private area, and the children slept up in the loft. Liza had agreed to mind the store for the McKays when they went upriver to Champoeg to celebrate their eldest son’s wedding.

It was getting late, but she could not close up the store yet; there was one more visitor coming to see her tonight. She was already dreading it. Meeting with Mr. Brown was never pleasant.

It was possible that no one had noticed Matthew’s arrival tonight. There were a lot of strangers in town these days. In the year since Liza had come, the town of Oregon City had doubled in size. More people were coming in from the trail each week, making their way around Mount Hood on the Barlow Road or risking the passage down the Columbia River past The Dalles, all eager to claim land.

She recognized that longing; it was what had led her and her pa to take the Oregon Trail. It was all she had ever wanted since she was a child—a place she could call her own. No one to look down on her for being the daughter of an Irish immigrant. Here, they were all immigrants together. This was a place where she could put down roots. She could have a family—She winced away from the thought. It led back to the man lying unconscious in the bed in the other room.

It had been almost a year since she’d last seen him. Perhaps he had an explanation for what he’d done. Perhaps he had come to apologize.

The front door opened. Old Granny Whitlow stomped in, bringing a rush of cool evening air with her. “What’s this I hear? Some man barged in here?” She looked around. “Where’s he now, then? Don’t just stand there, girl!”

“He’s resting. I don’t want to disturb him.” Liza shut the door behind Granny. She only wished she could close the door on this conversation, as well. She had wanted a chance to talk to Matthew privately first.

“Humph.” Granny did not look impressed. As one of the founding members of the Ladies’ Social Club, she seemed to feel it was her duty to collect and spread the latest news among the townspeople. “I was hoping to get a look at the fella.”

“He’s been injured,” Liza said. “There’s really no need for you to stay. He’s not going to hurt me.”

The dry goods store served as the social center for the women of the town, so Mrs. McKay had placed a couple of rocking chairs by the fire for visitors, and a table with Mr. McKay’s prized chess set on it. Granny settled herself in one of the rocking chairs and then looked up at Liza. “You sound pretty certain about a total stranger.”

“He’s not a stranger. His name is Matthew Dean. I don’t want Mr. Brown to know he’s here, not until I’ve had a chance to talk to Matthew, but...” Liza’s voice trailed off. This was harder than she had expected. She had to force the words out. “He’s the man I got betrothed to on the trail.”

The silence was so profound that she could hear the tinny piano being played all the way down in Vandehey’s saloon.

“Well, if that don’t beat all. You’ve been refusing offers left and right on account of your being promised to some man none of us have ever seen, and here he pops up all out of nowhere.” Granny nodded her head.

Liza felt her cheeks growing warm. “When he went off down the California Trail instead of coming on to Oregon with me, he promised he’d come up once he’d gotten a stake, and then we’d get married. It just took longer than I thought, that’s all.”

“Months and months. California’s full of them pretty Spanish girls, I do hear.”

“He loves me.” Was she trying to convince the other woman or herself? Liza shoved that thought aside. “He asked me to marry him, and he’s an honorable man.”

“Humph. Men change their minds just as much as women do. If he was coming up here to marry you and all, why was he down there all that time and never sent you a letter?” Granny spoke triumphantly, hammering the final nail in the coffin.

Every word she said was true, but Liza didn’t want to hear it all the same. “He asked me to marry him. He promised he’d come back to me. Now he has.”

Granny said skeptically, “And he just happened to wander straight to your door? Just you go and fetch those quilts from up in the loft. I can’t manage that ladder, but no matter. I’ll be comfy as anything right here in this chair for the night.”

Liza got a couple of quilts for herself as well, spreading one across the other rocking chair. “Anyone in town knows I’ve been minding the dry goods store while the McKays are upriver. He could have been given directions here before he was injured.” Granny still looked skeptical. “And, of course, this was the only place still open, apart from the saloon.”

“You really shouldn’t keep the store open this late. I’ll help you put up the shutters.”

“No.” Liza put out a hand to stop her. “I can’t close up the store yet. I’m waiting for someone.”

Granny narrowed her eyes. “At this hour? Who?”

As Liza started to answer, the door was pushed open again. The man in the doorway was of medium height, slim, with brown hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. There was nothing remarkable about his appearance, but dread curled into a knot in Liza’s stomach. “Good evening, Mr. Brown.”

“Good evening.” He nodded to Granny. “Mrs. Whitlow.” He paused. “Might I speak with you privately, Miss Fitzpatrick? Perhaps we could use the other room. There is a matter I would like to discuss with you.”

“No,” Liza said quickly. “We can talk here. It is all right if Granny stays.”

“Don’t mind me,” Granny said brightly. “I’ll be quiet as a mouse.” She folded her hands, eyes bright with curiosity.

Liza went behind the counter, where she had her reticule waiting. “I have the money here.” She handed him the coins. It was almost all the money she had in the world, but giving it to him was worth the sacrifice if that meant keeping the claim. “There. That is the last payment. Now Pa does not owe you anything, and neither do I.”

Mr. Brown put his wallet away inside his jacket. He withdrew a piece of paper. “And here is the IOU. It was unfortunate that your pa needed to borrow money, but I’m glad at least that I was able to be the one to help you in your time of need.”

“Thank you.” She had to force the words out. “I am sure Pa thought he was doing the best he knew how, but I would prefer if he did not borrow money from anyone in the future. I can take care of him until he gets on his feet again.” And next time, he can tell me when he borrows money to keep the claim going.

“Can you?” The question was mild, but those pale green eyes were intent upon her. “Apparently, you have not heard. Your hired hands quit this afternoon.” His thin lips curved up into a faint smile. “They should be halfway to Astoria by now.”

The words settled into her like lead weights. “I expect we’ll manage.” She only wished she knew how. There was no way she could get the harvest in by herself.

“It looks like you’ve gotten some new supplies.” Mr. Brown scanned the bolts of fabric on the shelf behind her. “I’d like a few yards of that braided trim if you would be so kind.”

Liza measured out the yards of fabric and wrapped it up for him. He was playing with her, wasting her time. What use did a man have for trimming? None.

He never shifted his gaze from her. “You could sell the claim to the Baron, you know.” Mr. Brown’s boss, Barclay Hughes, had come out to the Oregon Territory a few years back. He had quickly made a fortune cutting down trees and shipping the wood down to San Francisco. To his face, everyone called him Mr. Hughes. Behind his back, he was known as the Baron. “He wants the land. He’ll be pleased if I can get it for him. I can make sure that he doesn’t cheat you on the deal. He listens to me. He will give you a good price for your claim, and you could find permanent work in town.”

“Sell the claim? And give up our independence? Thank you all the same, but no. My father is going to prove up his claim, and I am going to help him. No one is going to take it from us.” She finished wrapping up the fabric and pushed it across the counter to him.

Mr. Brown leaned forward, and she had to repress the urge to step back. “Frankly, Miss Fitzpatrick, you can’t do it. Not just you and your father.”

He thought she would give in. Thought she had no choice.

Since that tree had fallen on Pa’s legs, breaking them both, getting the crops in had become a major worry in her life. Without the harvest, she and Pa would not be able to afford to stay on the claim over the winter, which meant they would lose it. The law specified a man had to live on his claim if he wanted to prove it.

The wheat was ripe now. There was no time to hunt for new helpers. If she put off the harvest, the rains would come and the crops would rot in the fields.

Her thoughts flitted to the man in the back room. Mr. Brown had always acted possessive where she was concerned, no matter how often she’d made it clear that she had no interest in him. Dealing with him had been awkward enough when she had only been paying off Pa’s IOU. Once he learned that her fiancé was in town, it would be a thousand times worse.

She couldn’t face his reaction to the news. Not tonight, when she was still trying to come to terms with Matthew being back in her life. Perhaps by morning, Matthew would remember who he was, who she was. What they had meant to each other. All she knew for sure at this moment was that she needed to talk to him before she could decide how to handle Mr. Brown’s reaction to the news. She went to the front door and held it open. “Please don’t let me keep you.”

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, when you’ve had more time to consider. I know you’re a stubborn little lady, but I’m sure by morning you’ll understand that I only want what is best for you.”

From her place by the fire, Granny called out, “You’ll be wanting to go back to the hotel before you lose your chance of supper. I don’t know why you don’t just board with some respectable family instead of paying all that money to stay at that fancy new place, but that’s young men for you. Always have to present a good image to the world.”

Mr. Brown opened his mouth to speak, then he shut it again, pressing his lips together. Anger stained his cheeks with bright red patches. Abruptly, he turned and left.

Liza shut the door behind him and bolted it. She leaned against it, closing her eyes for a moment, and a sigh escaped her.

“There’s a man who dearly likes to get his own way.” Granny’s dry voice came from behind her. “Mr. Brown won’t be happy until he’s gotten your claim for the Baron.”

“That’s what I am afraid of.” Liza sat down in the other rocking chair and wrapped the quilt tightly around herself. “I don’t know what to do about the harvest.” There. She had said it out loud.

“Why is that man so set on your claim? He’s bought up most of the claims around. You’d think he’d be satisfied.”

She shook her head. “He wants to please the Baron. He thinks if he goes through me, Pa will agree to sell the claim.”

“That’s true enough. Whole town knows your pa would do anything for you.”

“For me, yes.” It never occurred to him to let her share the burden. That was part of the problem. Granny was looking at her, eyebrows raised, so Liza explained further. “After my mother’s death, Pa left me with my aunt in Iowa while he came out here and threw all his energy into building a new home for us on the claim. I think it helped him deal with his grief, as well as giving him a way to provide for me. It was his legacy, he always said.” She did not want to think of what losing the claim would do to him. He would feel a failure, not just as a farmer but as a father.

“Come sit by me and say your prayers, child.” Granny spoke gently, instead of in her usual acerbic tone. “Let the Lord carry your troubles for the rest of the night.”

It was good advice, but Liza found that she was not able to stop worrying. The fire was getting low—a log sank down into a bed of glowing embers. She settled into the other rocking chair, wrapped a thick quilt around herself and stared into the embers.

Why had Matthew taken so long to come to her as he’d promised? She had waited, first hopefully, preparing the loft in the cabin for two people. Then anxiously, wondering if something had happened to him. She had no way of knowing where he had gone, exactly. Just a hastily scribbled note saying he was going to find gold and that he would come to her in the spring. Months had gone by, and not a word from him.

She was familiar with the feeling of being left. After Pa had headed off west, she had waited back in Iowa for three years before he had sent for her. Even though his concern had been to make sure there was a proper home for her, he had left her. That awkwardness still lay between them. They never spoke of it, but she could tell sometimes, when he was in one of his moods, that the guilt weighed on him. She still struggled with her anger at being left behind.

She had traveled the Oregon Trail with a respectable family that her pastor had introduced her to. They had been kind enough, though preoccupied with their own affairs. She hadn’t realized how lonely she had felt until she met Matthew. He had been traveling without family, too, and somehow that had formed a bond that had quickly strengthened into something stronger. Or she thought it had. He’d asked her to marry him. He said he loved her. Had he changed?

The memory of those dark eyes, looking straight at her with no sign of recognition at all... She shivered, despite the quilts. One thought chased another through her mind until at last she fell back to reciting her favorite psalms to calm herself. Finally, she slept.

The next thing she noticed was sunlight falling warm on her face.

Granny bent over a kettle hanging by the fire. “Good morning. I just checked on your man. He’s still sleeping, but his color looks good. I’m thinking he’s not hurt that badly. Looks like he’s not been eating regularly, worn himself down.” She patted Liza on the shoulder. “The tea is almost ready. I’ll be back later, see how you’re getting on.” She must have read the apprehension on Liza’s face, because she added, “You’ll be fine. The Lord knows what He’s doing.”

It was quiet after Granny left. Liza stood in the middle of the room. She could hear early-morning noises outside: birds singing, the occasional rattle of wheels as a wagon rolled by. From the back room, nothing but silence. She had to face him. She was dreading it. To put off the inevitable, she whipped up a batch of biscuits. While they were baking, she combed out her hair, braided it and pinned it up into a crown around her head. Her mother had always told her that her light blond hair was pretty, but Liza found it annoying. It was too fine. Wisps slipped out of the braid despite her best efforts.

Dallying over her hair was only putting off the need to go in and talk to Matthew. She straightened up and put her shoulders back. She had walked the length of the Oregon Trail. She was not going to fail at the end.

Despite her resolution, it took an effort to knock on the door to the back room. When there was no response, she opened the door tentatively. No sound came from the blanket-covered mound on the bed. She pushed the door open wider.

She laid down his folded clothes at the foot of the bed, putting on top of the pile the comb and the newfangled harmonica that she’d found in his pockets. That was all he had had on him, no money or identification.

He didn’t move, so she took a couple steps closer. She studied him as if seeing him for the first time. He’d always been thin, but now he was downright skinny. His cheekbones stood out prominently, and there were dark circles under his eyes.

Under the quilt, his legs twitched as if he were about to run. He looked so like a boy, with that strand of dark hair across his forehead. A troubled boy. Whatever he’d been doing, he’d not had an easy time of it.

Unexpectedly, tenderness welled up inside her. She smoothed the hair away from his face. Very lightly, she trailed her fingertips across his warm skin. She smiled.

His eyes flew open. Dark eyes, fierce as a hawk, stared straight into hers. Then he moved swiftly.

She found herself flat on her back on the floor, with those fierce eyes intent upon her and his hand at her throat.

* * *

He was back at Dutch Flat. Vince was still alive, making silly jokes, walking backward down the alley and smiling at him without a care in the world. Without seeing the three men coming up behind him.

He struggled to call out, to warn Vince to look behind him, but as in the way of dreams sometimes, he could make no sound. There was nothing he could do to stop it. It was all going to happen again, just like it had before. He was too late.

A hand touched his face. Lost in his dream, he reacted instinctively.

Then he blinked, focused. He was looking straight down into the clear gray eyes of a young woman, a few inches away. She was a delicate little thing, skin like porcelain, wisps of golden hair framing her face.

“Good morning,” she said breathlessly. Even though he still had his hand on her throat, she was looking up at him as if she trusted him not to hurt her. He didn’t like it that she was looking at him like that. He removed his hand, but he did not know what to do next.

He was completely lost, no firm ground to stand on. He did not know where he was. He realized that he did not know who he was. He frowned down at the young woman. “Do I know you?”

For a moment, he thought he saw an expression of pain in her eyes. Then she blinked, and it was gone. “Well, you used to. Could you let me up, please?”

He suddenly realized that their respective positions were not exactly proper. He sat up, backing away from her until he reached the wall, and ran a hand through his hair. His fingers found the bandage, and his frown deepened. His head throbbed. So. He had been injured. Someone had bandaged him and put him to bed. He looked at the woman. “Who are you?”

She sat up, brushing herself off. She tried to smile, but it looked stiff, awkward. She stopped. “Good morning,” she started again. “I am Liza Fitzpatrick.” She looked at him, clearly waiting for some kind of reaction.

“You will pardon me if I do not introduce myself.” It was irritating to have to admit his ignorance. Gingerly, he got his feet under him and stood, extending a hand to help her up. “Are you hurt? Please accept my apologies, madam. I do not make a habit of accosting strange women first thing in the morning.”

“Do you usually wait until the afternoon before you accost women?” She evidently regretted the flippant impulse as soon as she saw him turning red. In more contrite tones, she added, “I should be the one apologizing. I’m sorry I startled you. Shall we sit?” She dragged a barrel chair over to the bedside. He looked around for another chair. When he saw there was none, he sat on the very edge of the bed, muscles tensed.

Tentatively, she began, “You must be as uncomfortable as I am.”

If that’s the case, then you must be uncomfortable indeed. Not that it showed. The young woman—Liza—spread the skirt of her blue dress out as she sat, then she folded her hands in her lap. With her light blond hair framing her lovely face, she looked like the picture of a modest young lady, poised and neat. He felt unsure of everything about himself, and he hated it. Then he noticed that the tip of her shoe just showed at the edge of her skirt. She was tapping her foot, where she thought he could not see. The discovery made him feel a bit better. He wasn’t the only one who was unsettled by this conversation.

“Your name is Matthew Dean.”

Not even a twinge of familiarity at the name. “You have the advantage of me. How is it you know my name and I do not?”

“I know you. Or at least,” she amended, “I used to. You came to see me last night. You were ill and fainted.”

He wrinkled his brow. “I think I remember...something about that. It’s rather vague. I hope I was polite.”

“What do you remember?”

He started to shake his head, then stopped, his fingers going to the bandage at his forehead again. “Nothing. Nothing that makes sense, at any rate. It was dark. Men jumped me. I think... I think there might have been a woman there as well, but that hardly seems likely.”

“What else?”

“There is nothing else!” He stopped. “I beg your pardon. This is extremely frustrating. It’s as if—it’s as if part of my mind is a locked room and I’m on the outside trying to break down the door. I don’t know the first thing about myself.”

“Well,” Liza said, “I can help with that, at any rate. Yes, you do know me. You come from Illinois. We traveled out west in the same wagon train, and we used to walk together. We started to talk and became friends. Then we became more than friends. You asked me to marry you. Then you left me to go to California to look for gold.”

A dry recital of words, sticking to the bare facts. He struggled to take it all in. “I recall none of those actions, madam.”