His Forgotten Fiancée. Evelyn Hill M.

down on the floor in the back room for you?”

      “Let’s worry about that later. First things first.”

      She leaned forward to pick up a plate. Then she put it back down again. She sighed. “The cows need milking, and I need to check on the chickens, take care of the horse, get my father to bed, clean up the house...”

      He felt an odd impulse to reach out, take her in his arms and comfort her. That was impossible, of course, so he scowled. “I’ll get your father to bed and then tend to the horse.”

      “Do you feel up to it? You’re not dizzy or anything?” She looked up at him, those clear gray eyes showing her gratitude. Warmth swept through him when she looked at him like that. It was distracting. His scowl deepened, and she looked away, her face turning red.

      “If I start to feel faint, I’ll rest. You go tend to the cows and feed the chickens.” He couldn’t help it. He gave in to his need to touch her. Sliding a finger under her chin, he lifted her face up until she met his eyes. “It’ll be all right. You’ll see.” He dropped his hand hastily and took a step back.

      He got Liza’s father into bed with some difficulty. Though the older man was not tall, he was broadly built and heavily muscled. He leaned heavily against Matthew as he stumbled across the back room to the bed. Matthew eased the other man down onto the bed. Still only half-conscious, the older man sighed deeply. “Don’t be angry, Katy girl. I’ll make it up to her.”

      Matthew removed the man’s boots and drew a quilt over him. Heading outside, he unharnessed the horse and rubbed it down before setting it loose in its paddock. Then he went back to the cabin and built up the fire until it had begun to light the room with a cheery red glow. The kitten seemed content to crouch under a bench and watch him. He was just looking around for a candle to light when Liza came in. A wooden yoke was slung across her shoulders, and a pail of milk hung down from a rope on either side.

      “It’ll be a simple meal tonight. I brought bread and cheese from town, some apples, smoked salmon.”

      “That sounds lovely,” he said politely. His stomach was so hollow, it was starting to make growling noises. Hopefully, she couldn’t hear it. He found the stub of a candle set in a saucer and lit it. Light spread throughout the room.

      “He took out the chess set.” Liza squatted down to pick up the chess pieces, which had spilled out over the puncheon floor.

      Matthew knelt down to help her, picking up pieces and putting them into their little box. He fingered one of the pawns, rubbing the polished wood with his thumb.

      She glanced over at him. “Does it look familiar? You left it with me when you took off on the California Trail instead of coming with us out to Oregon.”

      He stared down at the piece. “Yes, I...no.” He put the piece in the box. “I thought there was something, but it’s gone.”

      “It will come back. You just need patience.”

      “Not my most noted quality,” he said darkly.

      She gave him a half smile. “Looks like we have something in common after all.”

      His eyebrows flicked upward. Was she flirting with him? No, apparently not. She had gone back to picking up the chess pieces, her head bent and her eyes on the floor. “I taught Pa how to play a little. He indulges me, but it’s not his favorite way to pass the time. He’d far rather tell stories.” She frowned. “The Baron loves chess. So does his assistant, Mr. Brown. He used to come by and challenge me to a game. He said I was a very good player.”

      “He didn’t strike me as an especially honest man. Possibly he was trying to sweeten you up. A man tends to compliment a beautiful woman rather than criticize her.”

      After supper, Liza was tired, but far too restless to sleep. On impulse, she asked Matthew to come outside. There was a question she needed to ask, even though he most likely could not answer, and she did not want to chance her father overhearing her.

      The sun had disappeared behind the western ridge. In the east, the last rays of the setting sun still lit up the white snow at the very tip of Mount Hood, but on the claim it was growing dark. All the better. She had a feeling this conversation would be easier if she couldn’t see Matthew. If he were feeling sorry for her, she had no desire to see the pity on his face.

      She sat down on the bench outside the cabin and motioned for him to join her. Matthew seemed hesitant, careful to leave some space between them when he sat down, and he looked around the claim rather than at her. Even so, she was extremely conscious of him, the mere physical presence of the man.

      He had rolled up his sleeves to help her clean up the cabin; she could see the wiry black hair that lightly furred his forearms. His hands were strong, the fingers long and graceful, but terribly battered. Even in the fading light, she could see the scar that ran across the back of his left hand along the knuckles. That was new, but his hands were still achingly familiar to her. Hands that had once held hers as they had walked, hands that had brushed her hair back from her face as he looked down and smiled at her. She swallowed. Letting go of the past was harder than she had expected. Maybe it would be easier if she could at least get this one mystery cleared up.

      She sneaked a glance at him out of the corner of her eye. He had tilted his head back to watch the sunset tint the white snow on Mount Hood to a warm apricot. The eastern sky beyond was darkening to a lovely royal blue. He seemed absorbed in admiring the scenery. Or pretending he was somewhere else. She wasn’t sure how to work up to her question, but she had to start somewhere. “How are you feeling?”

      He glanced at her briefly before returning to his appreciation of the sunset. “I am feeling quite well. The doctor seems to have made an accurate assessment of my injury being slight. I do not think you need to worry about my helping with the harvesting.”

      “I’m glad to hear it. I apologize for my pa. He really doesn’t drink any longer. I’m sure he wouldn’t have indulged if his visitor hadn’t insisted.”

      “Do you still think it was this Baron?”

      “Or Mr. Brown.” She considered. “On the whole, I’d say he’s worse than the Baron. At least the Baron comes at you straight on. Mr. Brown likes to sneak around and spring things on you when you least expect it.”