Linese was watching him. For an instant their gazes met and he felt something flit through his mind, but before he could analyze whether it was a memory, it winnowed away. Chase swallowed his disappointment and urged the horse on to Goten’s Livery.
The man Linese had pointed out as being Ira Goten was raking manure at the side of the stable when Chase stopped the buggy. A slick sorrel with wild white-ringed eyes poked his head out of a stall at the back of the stable and nickered at the new arrival.
“Morning, Major.” Ira leaned on his rake handle and watched Chase lead the horse and buggy toward the back of the barn.
“’Morning, Mr. Goten. I’d like to keep the horse here while my wife and I are at the Gazette—if that’s all right,” Chase explained.
Ira smiled and gave a little snort. “Mr. Goten? No need to be so formal with me, Chase. I’ve been wondering when you’d stop by. Come inside. I have something of yours I’ve been meaning to return to you.”
“Something of mine?” Chase swallowed hard. He narrowed his eyes and stared at the man who evidently knew him, and once again found his own memory blank.
“Tie your horse up here, I’ll see to him in a bit.” Ira placed the rake against the fence and led the way inside the stable.
The mustiness of grain, straw and horse sweat filled the air. Chase paused a minute to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim light. There was a harness spread out on the floor and assorted tools were scattered around in the dirt and grain chaff. Chase watched Ira stride to a corner and move a wooden box out of the way. Then he squeezed his lean body into a dark cranny where he lifted the lid off a staved barrel.
The aroma of cracked corn filled the air while Ira dug through the grain with his bare hands. His arm disappeared nearly to the shoulder before he smiled and started to pull it out.
“There, I’ve finally got it.”
Ira shook the bits of corn off his arm while he extracted it from the barrel. When his hand reappeared, he was clutching an oilskin-wrapped bundle.
“I kept it real nice for you.” Ira Goten thrust the bundle toward Chase.”I see your hand hardly scarred at all.”
Chase followed the man’s gaze to the narrow white scar on the back of his right hand. He didn’t know how he got it, but it was plain Ira Goten knew. Some deep instinct inside Chase told him not to touch the bundle the man held out to him, but he ignored the silent warning within his head. Whatever was concealed inside the oilskin, it was a link to his past, a bit of the puzzle he longed to piece together. He reached out and took the object from Ira’s hands.
The bundle was hard and moderately heavy in his grasp. He allowed his fingers to wrap around it while curiosity burned inside him. No recall came attached to the object. He wanted to pull back the covering and see what he held, but Ira Goten was watching him, so he forced himself to wait.
“I never did get a chance to talk to you again before you left. We were damned lucky that night in Ferrin County, weren’t we?” Ira smiled but it was a cheerless expression. “We did what we had to for the cause, didn’t we, Chase? And now you’ve come home a major with all kinds of decorations.” Ira shook his head from side to side as if amazed by the outcome of Chase’s time in the war.
Finally, Chase could wait no longer. He turned the oilskin over and untied it. Slowly, to hide his eagerness, he pulled back the covering until the barrel of a Colt appeared.
“Yep, it’s just like you left it.” Ira reached into one oversize pocket of his overalls and pulled out a small leather bag. Ira dropped the bag into Chase’s empty hand with a metallic plop that was surely money. “I intended to give you this, as well.”
“What—?” Chase asked under his breath.
“Take it. God knows you earned it. I kept it for you all the while you were gone.”
He knew what he would see before he ever pulled the cords at the top to look inside the bag. The sound had been clear and unmistakable. Just as he’d expected, a stack of gold coins was nestled in the bottom of the leather pouch.
Chase yanked the top closed. He couldn’t look at the money. Holding the gun in his hand, hearing what Goten said, he was afraid to think of what he had done to get the coins.
He looked up at Ira Goten’s lean, weathered face and found himself wondering what kind of man he had been before he rode off to war. What was he involved in that would compel this man to keep a gun hidden for two years? And how much blood stained the small bag of gold coins in his hand?
Chase dumped the gold coins deep into his trouser pocket. He tossed the small leather bag in a heap of manure outside Ira’s barn, then he slid the Colt beneath the buggy seat. His head ached from trying to remember what they signified. Now he found himself dreading the moment when he might actually remember his past. Only hours ago it had been the most important task in his life, now he was apprehensive that he might find himself face-to-face with a past he could take no pride in, a past that might shame him more than his grandfather’s feeble mind.
While Chase walked to the Gazette, he was occupied with nothing but questions about his past life. Each time he searched his mind for answers, all he found were more murky questions. And when he looked at his grandfather, he felt a mingling of fear and an overwhelming responsibility to protect and shield the old man from ridicule.
Chase sighed and ran his hand through his hair while he strode unevenly down the alleyway. He had confronted nothing but mystery since he stepped off the train. First, his wife seemed surprised when he showed her the most basic kindness, which made him question their former relationship, now he’d been given a hidden weapon and Chase knew there was a damned good chance he had used it to obtain the gold Ira handed him.
He was beginning to think returning to Mainfield had been a mistake. Everything and everyone he met made him want to turn around and ride out, to lose himself in obscurity, to forget about finding his lost self. Everyone except for Linese.
Linese made him want to stay. Her shy smile and delicate features lured him toward the unknown. The thought that he could reclaim a past they had shared made him want to challenge his fears, to probe his past. She was an anchor in a sea of doubt and despair. He realized that even though he had no real feeling for her that he could recall, no actual memory of having fallen in love with her, he was glad she was his wife. He was glad she was the woman who had waited two years for his return.
The sudden realization brought a cold fist of sadness to Chase. If not for the fear of his infirmity being discovered, he would gladly seek comfort in Linese’s arms. It was a bittersweet truth to face. He would happily allow himself to be a real husband to her, if not for the possibility of her comparing him now to the man he had been.
Chase feared she would find the present persona of himself sadly lacking. She had known him in a way no other person could have known him. Any slip of the tongue, any mistake in action would bring the truth crashing around him like grapeshot. That one fact forced him to keep a rock-solid wall between himself and Linese.
Chase was still lost in his own private hell when he stepped through the door of the newspaper office and found himself toe-to-toe with Mayor Kerney. The shorter man looked up at him. Chase glanced around and found a small group of well-dressed, prosperous-looking men inside the Gazette. One man was verbally haranguing a whipcord-thin fellow covered from chin to toe in black ink. Linese was standing in the corner of the room watching the whole scene in tight-lipped but silent disapproval. She still had her gloves on and held her bonnet stiffly in one hand.
The besmudged man turned away from his inquisitor and looked at Chase. His black eyes glittered with intelligent irritation. Chase surmised he was staring at Hezikiah Hersh-ner and he felt a measure of relief.
He knew it was foolish that, under the circumstances, he would have begrudged Linese the company of a young, handsome man in his absence, but he admitted to himself he was glad Hezikiah was twice his age and plain as pudding.
“I’m