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.