Читать книгу Montana Lawman Rescuer - Linda Ford - Страница 13

Chapter Two

Emily reluctantly allowed Jesse to draw her toward the house. He’d asked if she’d done something wrong. The question had triggered a response in her brain—one that made her stomach clench. She swayed a little with dizziness, grateful that Jesse held her arm so she wouldn’t fall.

She tried not to think of all the things she might be guilty of, but it made her head pound. “Jesse, wait.” She pulled him back.

Jesse faced her, his expression so kind that she couldn’t swallow. “Everything is going to be okay.”

“I don’t know that. Just as I don’t know who I am or what I’ve done. I don’t even know who Mikey is. My son? A friend’s son?” A word hovered in the back of her mind. A word that described Mikey. She almost captured it, but then it slipped away. The wind stung her eyes and made her shudder. Not knowing was the worst feeling in the world.

“Emily, I know you’re frightened. Remember the verse you quoted? ‘What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee.’ Do you believe it?”

She didn’t have to think to nod a yes.

“That says to me you are a child of God.”

She nodded again. “I belong to Him. Have since I was a child.” How did she know that and yet couldn’t recall her name or her relationship to Mikey?

“God will not abandon you now. Do you believe that?” His gaze held hers, full of assurance and faith.

“I do.” She sucked in air until her lungs would hold no more. “I’m ready.” She gripped his hand with all her strength as he led the way up the path to the front door of a welcoming-looking house. He opened the door and called, “Gram, I got company for you.”

A dog barked from somewhere inside.

Mikey pressed to Emily’s legs. He vibrated and she squeezed his shoulder. “We’re going to be just fine, Mikey.” The doctor had assured her that her memory would return, though he couldn’t guess as to when. In its own good time, he’d said. Be patient, he’d warned. Not that she saw she had much choice.

They stepped through a tiny entryway with oval-shaped glass in both the outer and inner door. The beveled edges of the glass would refract the light and make rainbow colors on the floors and walls that children would admire.

She gave the room a sweeping glance, hoping something would trigger her mind into remembering. The front room in which they stood was welcoming. A dark green couch had a knitted afghan in variegated greens on one arm, and an overstuffed armchair sat on either side of the couch. A yellow canary sang in a cage close to a window.

Mikey noticed it and pointed. “Bir, bir.”

“Bird. That’s right,” she murmured as she continued her study. One big window overlooked the street, another on the far wall revealed a wide-branched tree with a garden table and two wrought-iron chairs beneath its leafy arches. A fine place to sit and read or sew. A fireplace, a full bookcase and a china cupboard of knickknacks all combined to make the room warm and welcoming.

But nothing triggered a sudden remembrance of who she was.

Three doors led from the room. One revealed a set of stairs, the second gave a glimpse of a kitchen. The third flew open and a small, older woman flew out, a little brown dog that looked to be part Chihuahua barking at her heels.

“Muffin, be quiet,” the woman ordered, and the dog immediately settled down. “Company. What a pleasant surprise. Do come in. I prefer to serve tea in the kitchen.” She hesitated. “But if you prefer the living room, that is fine with me.”

Jesse chuckled. “Gram, I’d like you to meet Emily and Mikey. Emily, Mikey, this is my grandmother, Mrs. Whitley.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Emily offered her hand.

The petite woman had twinkling brown eyes and white hair in a loose bun. Something about the spry lady brought a smile to Emily’s lips.

Mrs. Whitley took Emily’s hand between her own. “It’s my pleasure, for sure.” She touched Mikey on the head and dropped her hand again before Mikey could respond. She shifted her gaze to Jesse. “Bring your guests to the kitchen, then you can tell me what’s going on.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The note of fondness in his voice eased the strain gripping Emily’s heart. She knew that Jesse was the sheriff and this lady was his grandmother. From their short interaction, she knew nothing more except they were genuinely fond of and respected each other. It was enough to know she would be safe here until her memory returned.

They made their way to the kitchen.

She studied this room as carefully as she had the other. A worn, wooden table sat by big windows that gave a view of the backyard with a garden in its full glory, a row of raspberry bushes along the fence and flowers blooming in a riot of reds and pinks and white in wide rows. Vegetable plants were visible beyond the flowers.

Another window over the kitchen sink looked out on the side yard and the same leafy tree as she’d seen from the living room. There were also generous cupboards and a polished stove.

Emily held back a frustrated sigh that, although she knew the name of everything in the room and what its use was, nothing triggered her memory.

Mrs. Whitley bustled about preparing tea. She served milk and cookies to Mikey and waved Emily to a chair. Jesse sat beside her.

In a low voice he explained about the stagecoach robbery and accident.

Emily shuddered.

“I’m sorry. I know this is difficult for you.” He patted her arm.

Mrs. Whitley touched her arm on the other side. “You must feel all out of place, not knowing who you are, but not to worry, my dear. You’ll soon be right as rain in June. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need.” She shifted her attention to Mikey and brushed his hair off his forehead. “It will be nice to have a little man around again. It’s been some time since Jesse here was small.” The glance she gave Jesse revealed a wealth of love and affection.

Emily turned from watching them to study Mikey. She felt a fondness for him that soothed her, but shouldn’t she know if he was her son? She couldn’t imagine forgetting a child she’d carried for nine months.

She didn’t realize how long she’d been looking at the boy, nor how worried she’d become, until Jesse touched her shoulder. She jolted as if he’d awakened her from a dream. If only he had.

“Don’t fret. Remember what the doctor said.”

“I know. Don’t push it.”

“Grandma, Emily, I hate to rush out but I must get back to the stagecoach and look for clues before it rains.”

“You go do what you need to,” Mrs. Whitley said. “We’ll be just fine. Won’t we?” She directed her question to Emily as Jesse waited at the kitchen doorway, preparing to leave the house.

Emily murmured, “Of course,” though she felt like nothing in her world was fine at the moment. Except, she amended, that she was sitting at a table with a kindly grandmother. She’d been rescued by a kind, handsome man whom she felt she could trust. After all, he was the sheriff and his grandmother adored him.

Was that enough basis for trust? A dark cloud hovered at the back of her mind making her feel guilty. What had she done? Had she been involved in the planning of the robbery in some way? Surely not. And yet that dark cloud of suspicion lingered just out of reach. Why would she feel this sting of guilt unless she had done something wrong?

“Would you like to see your bedroom?” Mrs. Whitley’s question sent a shudder across Emily’s shoulders.

How long had she been staring into space, searching her mind? She jerked her attention to the woman, pushing back the wave of dizziness the movement gave her. “It’s most generous of you to take in a pair of strangers, especially when you know nothing about us.”

The woman chuckled softly. “I suppose I know as much about you at the moment as you know about yourself, but we aren’t going to worry about that. Your memory will return when it’s time and we’ll be patient because, my dear, these things are in the hands of a loving, caring God.”

Tears sprang to Emily’s eyes. She blinked them back. “I know it’s so. Thank you for reminding me.” She held out a hand to Mikey and they followed Mrs. Whitley out of the room. Her head hurt with the movement but taking her mind to other things was preferable to sitting and fretting.

“You’ve seen the living room. I hope you will make yourself at home. There are books to read if you care to. This is my pet canary, Dickie.” She tapped one of the wires of the cage. “Dickie, say hello to our guests.”

The bird made a clicking sound followed by a chirp.

“Good boy.”

Mrs. Whitley led them up the stairs. “The first room is Jesse’s. He often has to be up at odd hours taking care of things.”

Emily caught a glimpse as they passed the door and saw a room much like her first impression of Jesse—masculine—with a quilt made in dark browns and greens covering the bed, a heavy wardrobe with the door closed and a table beside the bed on which rested a Bible and a lamp. Seeing evidence of the man’s faith increased her courage.

“The room across the hall is mine.” Mrs. Whitley paused before the open door.

It was decorated with a frilly lace bed skirt, lacy curtains, a white crocheted spread, pictures of flowers and a shelf full of dainty china. Emily chuckled. “His room is so masculine. Yours quite the opposite.”

Mrs. Whitley gave her a cheery smile. “You’d wonder how such different people could live together in complete harmony, and yet we do.” She led the way to the end of the hall where two more doors stood across from each other. She opened the one on the left. It was a tidy little room with a double bed covered in a crazy patchwork quilt, a dresser and a table, and on the table was a Bible. The window, Emily knew, would look out on that leafy tree. It would be a pleasant place to spend the night. And then? Hopefully her memory would have returned and she could get on with her plans. Whatever they were.

“You can put your things in here.” Mrs. Whitley pressed her fingers to her mouth. Her eyes widened. “Oh, my dear. I am so sorry. You have no belongings. Now I wonder what use a woman’s and a child’s luggage would be to three robbers.” Jesse had told his grandmother the details of the robbery. Mrs. Whitley patted Emily’s arm. “Never mind. Jesse might find some of your things. If not, we’ll soon have you fixed up. I’d offer you something of mine but I’m afraid it would be too small. The people of Bella Creek are kind and generous, though, especially the Marshalls.” As she talked she opened the fourth door into a room similar to the one she’d shown Emily. “Mikey can sleep in here. Would you like that, young man?”

Mikey stood in the doorway, studied the room a moment then turned to face the women. “Mem, mem, mem, mem.”

“What is he saying?” Mrs. Whitley asked.

“I don’t know. Perhaps he’s asking for his mama.” Emily knelt to face Mikey. “Honey, I don’t know what you mean.”

He nodded and stuck his thumb in his mouth. His wide blue eyes studied her.

She got the feeling she had disappointed him. But she had no idea why. She rose. “We’ll be very comfortable. Thank you.”

Mrs. Whitley nodded. “If you need anything, just let me know.”

Emily knew the woman couldn’t give her what she needed the most—answers about who she was.

“Now, come along and I’ll show you my favorite room of the house.” They followed her back down the stairs and across the living room to the door from which she had burst not long ago.

Emily followed her into a room full of fabric and a large table on which Mrs. Whitley had been cutting out a garment. An open cupboard held various colored threads and several pincushions. In the corner stood a dress form. Emily circled the room, touching several things. “This feels familiar.”

“Good. Feel free to explore. It might help you remember.”

Emily lifted a big pair of cutting shears, balancing them in one hand and then the other. She had handled a pair like this. She could see herself sewing a seam, feel the pride she took in her tiny, even stitches. But nothing more would come and she set the scissors aside with a sigh.

“Anything?” Mrs. Whitley asked.

“I’m afraid not.”

“Well, not to worry.” She turned to Mikey. “I think I might have a few toys around. Would you like to help me find them?”

Mikey smiled. “’Kay.”

Emily followed them from the room, pausing at the doorway to look back. The sense of familiarity lingered, but nothing more came.

Mrs. Whitley opened a cupboard that revealed a space under the stairs. “Look at that. A whole box of toys.” She pulled the box toward them. “Mikey, have a look and see if there is anything you’d like to play with.”

The boy knelt and took out a ball, a collection of farm animals, several books and a little wagon. He soon played happily.

Emily looked about, at a loss as to what she should do. “Were you making something?” She nodded toward the sewing room.

“I am making several dresses for a Mrs. Abernathy. She’s in the family way and none of her clothes fit. Would you like to see what I’m doing?”

“Yes, please.” Emily moved Mikey and the toys closer to the door where she could watch him. As she straightened, the room tipped sideways. She sank to the floor, clutching her head in her hands.

Mrs. Whitley rushed to her side. “Forgive me. What was I thinking to drag you all over the house? Jesse will be unhappy with me.” She tsked. “Can you make it to the sofa?”

Emily struggled to her feet, clinging to the older woman’s hand. Mrs. Whitley wasn’t a big woman, but she put her arm about Emily’s waist and guided her to the couch with every bit as much strength as Emily had felt in Mrs. Whitley’s grandson.

Emily practically fell to the couch and leaned her head against the back. The room continued to circle and sway.

Mikey followed them and leaned against Emily’s knees.

She wanted to reassure him, but opening her eyes churned her stomach.

“Lie down and rest.” Mrs. Whitley placed a pillow beneath her head and pulled the green afghan over her. “Would a cold cloth to your forehead help?” She rushed away to get such before Emily could answer and placed it on her forehead.

“Thank you.” The coolness soothed her head.

“Just rest. We’ll be quiet. Won’t we, Mikey?”

Emily listened to them slip away to the kitchen. Their voices came from a dark tunnel. Lord Jesus, please make my dizziness go away and bring back my memory.

The canary sang as she lay there. She might have slept if it had been possible to relax, but she lay stiff as a board, fearing the slightest motion. She willed herself to remember her past, but her mind was full of dark tunnels that led nowhere.

* * *

Jesse paused at the door to take off his wet slicker and hang it on the nearby hook. It had stopped raining, but not before he’d gotten a good soaking. The downpour had made it impossible for him to track the criminals. He would go back later and examine every inch of the ground.

He shook water from his hat and hung it next to the slicker. He kicked off his wet boots and left them on the porch, then he stepped into the house. His heart crashed against his ribs at the sight of Emily, motionless on the couch. He hurried forward. Had she...? Was she...?

The blanket over her rose a bit and he gasped a shot of air.

She wasn’t dead. But she didn’t look very well, either. Although her eyes were closed, tension fanned out from the corners of them.

He slipped closer. “Emily?”

Her eyes flew open and she winced.

“Are you okay?”

“My head hurts.” She sat up, closing her eyes for a moment then opening them to study him. “Tell me you found the culprits and have them locked up.”

“The rain made it impossible to track them. However, I found something.” He returned to the door and picked up the damaged and stained satchel. He pulled a stool close and set it there.

“Does this look familiar?” he asked.

“It’s a satchel.”

“Have a closer look at it.”

“Is it mine?” Her voice trembled.

“Look inside.”

She did so and removed a water-damaged Bible and a packet of hairpins. She ran her fingers along the inside. “That’s all? Was there nothing else? My clothes? Something to indicate who I am?” She had a desperate look in her eyes.

He did his best to sound more encouraged than he felt. “This is all I found.” He’d searched the stagecoach and a wide circle around it, but apart from trampled grass and the imprint of an oddly shaped horseshoe, he’d found nothing. If he ever saw a hoofprint with that contour, he’d know what its rider had been up to the first week of July. “I can’t think why they took personal belongings.”

A sharp object—likely a knife—had damaged the satchel. He guessed the robbers did not want any reminder of God in their possession and had tossed aside the Bible and satchel. Nothing else remained of the stagecoach’s contents or the belongings of its two occupants.

“May I?” She asked permission to open the Bible.

“Yes, of course.” He’d hoped for eagerness and recognition, but she showed neither.

She opened the book and read the name inscribed on the flyleaf. “Emily Smith.” She looked at Jesse. “Is this me?”

“I hoped it was and that it would bring back your memory.” He rubbed his neck. “I didn’t find the men responsible for your accident, nor any proof of your identity.” He’d failed and was disappointed with himself.

She slowly turned the pages. “Maybe something in here will tell me who I am.” Many of the pages were stuck together from being wet and she carefully pulled them apart. Two were thick and refused to separate. “It feels as if there is something between these. But I don’t want to tear the paper. I can’t bring myself to purposely damage the Bible.”

He sensed tears and frustration close to the surface and gently took the Bible from her. “Let me try.” Jesse could not get the pages apart. “There’s certainly something there. Maybe steam will work.” He headed for the kitchen.

“I’m coming.” She moved cautiously, swayed a little.

He stopped, caught her arm and guided her into the kitchen where Mikey played with some of his old toys and Gram stirred a pot on the stove.

Gram saw Emily. “Should you be up? You look pale.” She gave Jesse a sorrowful look. “I should have insisted she rest. Instead, I dragged her around the house showing her every room.”

“I’m fine, though I don’t mind sitting.” Emily sank into the nearest chair.

Jesse showed Gram the Bible and explained his plan to separate the pages.

“It’s worth a try.” Gram pulled the kettle forward to the hottest part of the stove and they waited for it to boil.

“Okay, here goes.” He steamed the edges of the pages until they softened then slowly pulled them apart. “It looks like a letter.” He handed it to Emily.

She stared at the folded paper and drew in her lips.

He sat across the corner from her. “Isn’t it better to know?”

“Maybe.” Fear, hope and caution threaded through her voice. “Or maybe I’ll regret what I discover.” She laughed, a mirthless sound. “Of course, we have no idea if this is even mine.”

He squeezed her hands. “There’s one way to find out. Open the letter.”

With trembling fingers she unfolded the page and read it aloud.

Dear Abigail and John.

The bearer of this note is Miss Emily Smith. I have entrusted her with the special task of bringing to you Michael, also known as Mikey. When you asked me regarding adoption I knew he was perfect for you even though he isn’t an infant. He’s affectionate, easygoing and a real joy. Please accept him as your own. It might help him settle if you allowed Miss Emily to stay with you a few days.

I am looking forward to a letter from you expressing your delight at the child I have chosen for you.

My sincerest regards,

Your Aunt Hilda

She stared at the letter. “So, I’m Emily Smith?”

“It would seem so.”

She lifted her face, her blue eyes darkened with despair. “But who is Emily Smith?”

He didn’t have an answer for her.