His Forgotten Fiancée. Evelyn M. Hill

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.”

      Without any memories, he felt like half a man. He was engaged to this woman? It was hard to imagine. She was so close to him that if he reached out his hand he could touch that lovely face, run his fingertip down the curve of her cheek. His fingers longed to do just that. It was as if he knew her on some level that ran deeper than rational thought. But his mind kept listing objections as if he were arguing a case in court. “You mean I just showed up in your doorway last night after not seeing you for months? It seems wildly coincidental.”

      “Not if you were coming to see me.” The tapping foot accelerated its tempo. “Honestly, you are acting like I am offering you a nice, fresh rattlesnake for breakfast. I am not making this up.”

      He didn’t know what to think. Nothing felt real; he could find no solid ground underfoot. He was blundering about, a man out of his depth trying to find his way. He had no way of knowing if she was telling the truth. Some part of him kept insisting that beautiful women were not trustworthy. At the same time, an instinct deeper than all reason urged him to trust this one.

      He spread out his hands in a gesture of apology. “Please don’t misunderstand me. I do not mean to offend you. It’s just—I can’t begin to explain how unsettling it is not to remember such basic facts about oneself. Proposing marriage to a woman is the sort of thing that should stick in a man’s memory.” His smile was hesitant, but it seemed to put her at ease. The toe tapping stopped. She smiled back at him—not a polite, social smile but with the full force of her relief.

      Matthew’s smile faded. For a moment, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to take her in his arms. He had to stop himself from reaching out to her. This was hardly the sort of thought he should be entertaining in this situation. “Well.” He cleared his throat, turned aside, pulled the folded clothes onto his lap. “I should get properly dressed.”

      She blushed and stood up. “I’ll see to breakfast.”

      “Thank you.” He could feel his own face heating up under the beard.

      * * *

      In the front room, Liza folded up the quilts and started setting the table for breakfast. She could cope so long as she had something to do.

      She was aware of every sound of movement she heard from the next room. Her nerves were stretched taut, like fiddle strings keyed up for a concert.

      As she was sweeping the floor, she saw a mouse scurry past, keeping close to the wall. She reacted instantly, whacking the broom down fiercely. She missed and whacked again. Peered down at the crack between the wall and the cupboard. “Where are you? You better get out of here if you know what’s good for you.”

      “I think you made your feelings clear,” came the dry voice from behind her. “He’s probably halfway to St. Joe by now.”

      Matthew appeared in the doorway, dressed in his own clothes. He stood in the same position that he’d been in when he had walked through the front door last night, but one quick glance showed that he looked much better now. There was a healthy flush in his cheeks. He’d even introduced his hair to a comb, though it didn’t look like they’d had much of a conversation. It was oddly endearing.

      “The whole of the Oregon Territory is plagued with these varmints.” She put the broom back in its place with a determined thump.

      “It’s still a large reaction for such a small nuisance.”

      She busied herself with putting food on the table. It was hard to meet his gaze directly. She needed to put some distance between the two of them, to come to terms with the reality of Matthew being back in her life. It was a relief to seize upon a neutral topic. “I can’t abide mice. Over the winter, vermin like that got into my father’s grain stores, ruined near half of it. I have no plans to buy wheat this winter.” No funds to do so, either, but there was no reason to mention this. Matthew nodded, and somehow she had the feeling that he understood what she hadn’t said out loud. She gestured at the table. “Sit. I’ve made biscuits, and there’s some smoked salmon. Granny Whitlow said she would stop at Doc Graham’s place, so the doc should be comin’ by soon to make sure you’re all right.”

      He did not sit down. Instead, his hands curled around the back of the chair and gripped. “I don’t have any money.”

      “I have coin. I can pay him.” See? You need my help. You need me, even if it’s only for a little while.

      “You’ve already given me a bed to sleep in. Now food and medical attention. And I’ve got no way to pay you back. I don’t like accepting charity.”

      That stopped her. She set the crock of butter down with a thump and turned to face him, one hand on her hip. “One thing you’re going to notice about life in this territory—people help each other. Especially when you’ve just arrived. The settlers who were already established helped my father when he came here, and they helped me, too, when I arrived. And now I’m helping you. We can talk about payment for the doctor later, if we must, but right now what you are going to do is eat.” She pointed at the chair.

      His eyebrows rose, but all he said was, “Yes, ma’am.” He took his seat and unfolded the napkin she had provided. “It smells wonderful.” He spread butter on one biscuit and added a spoonful of honey. Liza took one as well, but she only toyed with it, crumbling the edge. She had no interest in food. Though she kept her head down, focusing on her mug of tea, her attention was concentrated on the man sitting opposite.

      He was trying to remember his table manners, clearly, but it was equally clear that it had been some time since he had eaten. He wolfed down the salmon and biscuits and eagerly accepted more. Finally, he put down his fork. “I hadn’t realized how hungry I was. That was absolutely marvelous. Thank you.”

      “You’re welcome.” At least he appreciated her cooking, even if he appreciated nothing else about her.

      He hesitated. “I have to say something, but I don’t want to hurt your feelings. I’ve already thrown you to the floor and offended your notions of kindness. But it needs to be said. Even after that wonderful meal, and the tea.”

      “Granny Whitlow made the tea before she left. She insisted on staying the night, to keep people from gossiping.” She wasn’t sure why she offered that, except that she was fairly sure she did not want to hear whatever unpleasant topic he was going to bring up.

      It worked to divert him. “Wait—you mean you were staying here all by yourself? How trusting are you? You need to be more careful in the future. Whatever happened