Come Back Page 3

  They never came.

  Deserted. Unwanted. Left behind. Every day as she worked to sustain her existence, the words echoed, unrelenting, in her mind. But most of all, they haunted her at night—those endless, aching hours when darkness shut out all distractions from the truth.

  Her family didn’t want her. Nathan didn’t want her.

  If they did, they’d have found a way to come.

  Nathan. The thought of his name made her wince. His betrayal hurt as much as that of her family. No. It hurt more.

  Bitter thoughts rose like bile. After he promised to marry her, she’d spent her days in a giddy fog, daydreaming about her future. Their future. Now she chided herself for trusting him. “Keating,” she used to recite to herself with a dreamy smile. “I’ll be Mrs. Nathan Keating.”

  She hoped she’d never hear that name again.

  Becca rubbed at the ache in her chest that had become a constant companion. The only thing that hurt more than being left was the reason why. It wasn’t for lack of knowing where she was. Charlotte had stayed behind to tell them. It wasn’t for lack of food; they had plenty. That left only two things—either they couldn’t come back and get her or they didn’t want to. Every scrap of evidence she had pointed to the later.

  The absence of bodies and burned out wagons had been both a relief and a cruel blow that confirmed her secret fear. Going to the stream alone had made her the subject of rumor. She’d ruined her reputation and lost everyone’s respect. Including Nathan’s.

  Loading the last of her belongings onto a flat sled she’d fashioned from a discarded bookcase and some rope, Becca paused to look at the home she was preparing to leave. A mocking laugh bubbled up her throat. Home. But that’s what it was—the tiny lean-to dwelling she’d built from branches and scraps of wood.

  For the last eight weeks, it had kept her cool in the day, warm at night, and safe from storms. But now, she had to move on. Winter was coming, and her supply of firewood was dwindling. If she didn’t find a warmer place to stay, she wouldn’t survive the first snow.

  After donning a pair of leather work gloves that were two sizes too big, Becca stepped inside the loop of rope and lifted it until it rested across her chest. She leaned against the weight and urged the load forward. The trek was slow and exhausting as she dragged the sled across rocky, uneven terrain, but she kept going. About a mile to the northwest, a larger, warmer home awaited her. The thought of living in a cave frightened her, but—unless she slept unprotected under the moon and stars—night was dark no matter where she was.

  She kept trudging forward, pausing from time to time to adjust the rope and take a sip from her canteen. Her load was heavy, but well worth the effort. She’d gleaned quite a lot from the crates and trunks desperate travelers left behind. If it hadn’t been for that, she might not have found her new home. Using chanced-upon candles and matches, she’d investigated several caves until she found one that was suitable—and, she shuddered, uninhabited.

  Bats, snakes, and bears were God’s creatures, too, but she’d just as soon admire them from a distance. A very far distance.

  By the time she reached the entrance, her chest was heaving and her body was damp with sweat. She plopped onto a rock to catch her breath and quench her thirst, but she didn’t tarry long. Every moment her flat of possessions lay out here in the open, she was vulnerable. Erasing any clue to her presence was her first priority.

  Survival depended on food and warmth, and on staying hidden.

  Eleven months and one day later

  ‘September 1st

  He visited me again today. While Ma was busy with the wash and Pa was fixing a broken fence in the south pasture, I snuck away to meet him, my golden-haired knight with eyes like the clearest blue pool. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. I quiver every time I see him. I have never felt like this before.

  When he looks at me, my whole body feels like... like the birds of spring are taking flight in my chest all at once. And his touch makes me tingle, the way the hairs on my arms do when lightning strikes. He barely touches me, tells me we should wait, but sometimes he traces the curve of my face with his finger, making a warm trail that spreads through my whole body and leaves me wanting more. He always leaves me wanting more.

  Today, he stared at my lips for a long time. I thought he might kiss me, but he closed his eyes and sighed. When he backed away, I could tell he wanted it as much as I did, maybe more. But he is a good man. He says he wants to do this proper, ask my father for my hand and wed me with his blessing. How can I tell him that never will be? It breaks my heart.

  I am so torn.

  Should I tell him the truth and convince him to wed me against my father’s wishes, or should I keep meeting him and keep living this lie? I don’t want to hurt him, but I don’t want to lose him. He is my breath, my very life. If I am forced to live without him, I will die.’

  Becca closed the diary and set it aside. She’d read it three times through already, and each time, the words pricked her as deeply as the first. She’d felt the same way about Nathan. Reading this stranger’s diary gave her muted feelings new life. Painful life. That’s why she now limited herself to reading one entry per day—the same day as the one she was actually living. It helped her keep track of the date. And it reminded her never to trust.

  She’d resisted becoming embittered, but that battle she’d lost, thanks to a phenomenon she’d never quite understood. People made mistakes—sometimes serious ones—and were readily forgiven. Yet with other poor choices, even the appearance of evil caused the offender to be shunned.

  Becca emerged from the cave and studied the sky. Winter was coming. Its first chilling storm would be here soon. She ducked back inside, pulled her sled from its hiding place, and left on her weekly quest to find wood. According to the calendar she’d made, she’d been here over a year. The first winter, she’d nearly frozen and nearly starved. Cold, hungry and thin, she’d met spring with dogged determination to plan better.

  Dragging the sled behind her, she made her way along a new gathering route, stopping to pick up any usable piece of fallen wood. Wind-raked clouds hovered overhead like a blanket of shorn wool, and dry leaves crunched under her feet as she guided her growing load between gnarled bushes and shedding trees—stubborn leaves still fluttering on their branches.

  Halfway back to the cave, she froze stock still when the whinny of a horse rent the air. The horse whinnied again. Hoof beats trailed off at a brisk pace. Then silence.

  A whoosh of air left her lungs. Whoever it was had ridden away.

  With her heart pounding and her skin stinging with fright, Becca urged her load toward home. This hunt was over. She’d not crossed paths with another living soul since the Indian scout that first day, and she was determined to keep it that way.

  As she climbed the last big rise, the sled’s rope dug into her gloved hands, but she didn’t care. She needed to get home, get hidden. And her path was mostly flat land from here.

  A strange noise stopped her in her tracks.

  Trembling, Becca scanned the area ahead.

  Her hand flew to her mouth and her heart stuttered in her chest. A man lay sprawled on the ground!

  She glanced around to make sure he was alone.

  Seeing no one else, she steadied her sled on the hilltop and crept closer. The man lay flat on his back with his eyes closed. He wasn’t moving. He’d groaned—she’d heard him—but now he looked as if he were sleeping. Was it a trick?

  She glanced around again, then picked up a stick and nudged him with it.

  Nothing.

  She nudged harder.

  Not even a wince.

  The man—a young man, not much older than she—wore a blue work shirt, light brown trousers and boots. Dust covered his clothes, and scratches marred his forearms.

  Becca laid the stick aside, then chewed her lip. Part of her wanted to run, but...

  She studied him again. The horse she’d heard must’ve been his.
Yes. That made sense. He’d been thrown. This poor man was stranded and hurt. She couldn’t just walk away.

  She slipped off her gloves and stuffed them in her skirt pocket, then knelt beside him, wringing her tremulous hands. Make sure nothing’s broken. Tend his wounds. She’d seen plenty of injuries during her months on the trail, even helped doctor a few, but she wished now she’d paid better attention.

  Warily, she reached for his shoulders, pressing down and running her fingers along his collar bones. They were straight and firm, so she turned her attention to his arms. Starting with the right, she wrapped her hands around his muscles—big muscles, even when flaccid at rest—and squeezed, over and over, as she inched her way down to his wrist. Nothing popped, bent, or crunched under her grasp. Thank goodness. Now the left.

  Becca hesitated. This was the arm that didn’t look so good, his forearm anyway. It wasn’t crooked, but it was swollen and beginning to bruise. She took a deep breath and did what she had to do. His upper arm was fine, so she braced herself and continued slowly down, past his rolled up cuff. A soft groan came out with his next breath, but nothing beneath her fingers felt like a break.

  His hands looked fine, but she checked them anyway. Except for some scrapes and the usual calluses, they were uninjured.

  Becca laughed at herself. She was stalling. She needed to check his hips and his legs, but... well... she glanced over both shoulders. It wasn’t exactly proper.

  Of course, no one was around to see—or to help. No man to take over the task. She was it and this had to be done.

  She positioned her hands either side of his hips and let them hover there. Then, with her eyes shut, she pressed in. Nothing.

  Opening one eye a bit, she ran her hands around back, then up where the bones ended just under his waist. Whew. She sat back and slung her hands several times to fling away the tension. And a tingle. Now his legs. Oh, my.

  Lord, forgive me, she prayed as she reached for his thigh.

  Becca checked each long leg as she had with each arm. They were muscled and lean. Even slack with unconsciousness, this man’s body impressed her. It was obvious her patient worked hard. And it was obvious he’d look twice as good standing up with his wits about him.

  A warm current sizzled through her. She savored it, then chided herself just the same. What was wrong with her? The poor man was injured, and here she was, going all wanton over some unconscious stranger.

  If her Aunt Prudence was right, she’d just secured a prime spot in hell.

  Becca moved back up until she was next to his arm. His breathing wasn’t terribly shallow, but she needed to check his chest. Figuring she’d long since forfeited her ticket to the pearly gates, she slid his suspenders aside and unbuttoned his shirt.

  Mercy! Was the bolt of shock from the bruises staining his side? Or from the rippled wall of skin and muscle that was his chest? She had to check his ribs, but she nearly refused. Touching such a manly form would certainly send her over the edge.

  Tarnation. What choice did she have? She had to care for the poor soul. Even if it meant sacrificing her own.

  Ignoring the soft tufts of tan hair that brushed against her palms, Becca ran her hands over the man’s chest and down to his waist. When she pressed the bruises that lay over his ribs, another moan came out with his breath. His eyes fluttered open, then closed again.

  She needed to check his back, so she crossed to his good side and tugged at him until he rolled almost all the way over.

  A louder moan came out this time.

  His shirt was dirty, but it wasn’t torn or stained with blood. When she was satisfied she’d missed nothing, she rolled him back and he moaned again.

  The man’s eyes fluttered open. He blinked several times, then drew his brows together and mumbled something as Becca buttoned up his shirt.

  “What did you say?”

  “Aa—” He cleared his throat. “Am I dead?”

  She angled her head so her face lined up with his. “No. Why would you think that?”

  “A... Angel,” he said as his blue eyes searched hers.

  “What?”

  “Yuh... You’re an angel.”

  Becca couldn’t keep from smiling. “I’m not an angel.” Ha. Far from it. If he only knew her thoughts. Besides, angels were male. Everyone knew that.

  “I’m dead. Gotta be.” He mumbled again, something about ‘angels’ and ‘heaven,’ and closed his eyes.

  “Mister.” She shook his shoulder. “Mister.”

  No answer. Just the soft snores of an exhausted man.

  Becca sighed. She’d let him sleep. He’d probably hurt less that way anyhow.

  She pushed herself up and sat on a nearby rock. Lifting her skirt, she tore a wide strip from the bottom of her chemise. His ribs weren’t broken, but they were badly bruised, a few of them possibly cracked. She’d bind them—for his comfort, if nothing else.

  His hat lay a few feet away and she went to retrieve it. She settled back down next to him and looked inside. No name. Nothing tucked in the band that she could see, but there was a gouge in the side of the felt. Was it new?

  Becca set the hat and the fabric aside. She brushed back locks of sandy blond hair from his face. There was nothing on his forehead, just a scratch on his cheek, so she ran her hands over his scalp. As her fingers slid through the wavy strands, the tension of his features eased. Then her hand brushed up against a bump, and a small groan vibrated in his throat.

  She lifted his head as much as she dared and found a persimmon-size lump behind his left ear. She parted the hair and looked closer. No cuts and no blood—good. But the fact he’d hit his head bothered her. Some people went to sleep and never woke up.

  Becca swallowed, her throat now dry. He’d woken up and talked to her. That was good, right? He’d called her an angel, sure, but that was only logical. He was out in the middle of unsettled land, with no one for miles upon miles. Waking up to a woman, even one as plain and dowdy as she, would make anyone think the worst.

  With that shred of reasoning bolstering her, she set about binding his ribs. He moaned several times through the process, but didn’t once open his eyes.

  She refastened his shirt and replaced his suspenders, then took a long look at his arm. It probably wasn’t broken, but she used the last of the fabric and some sticks to splint it all the same. After she tied the last strip, she rested his forearm across his body and tucked it under one of his suspenders to hold it in place.

  Having done all she could for him, Becca brushed off her skirt and stood up. What now? She couldn’t take him back to her cave, but she couldn’t leave him out here either. She hugged herself and scanned the surrounding sky. A hazy gray mist hung in the air to the east, and the wind was picking up. Just as she’d feared, a storm was brewing. She’d known it since watching the sun rise red that morning.

  She’d have to get them both to shelter. And soon.

  Becca hurried back to the man. She’d left him long enough to gather necessary items from her cave, then returned to figure out what to do. The rope and tarp she’d brought could yield a modest tent, but this was no small storm. She looked at him, and then back at the sky. How was she going to keep them both safe?

  She waited as long as she dared for his horse to come back, but the animal was nowhere to be seen. Not even a snort or whinny in the distance. Of course, she couldn’t have lifted the man onto the horse herself, and he was in no condition to mount up and ride. She’d either have to make a shelter here or... her old home. She would take him to her old, lean-to home.

  With a huff of determination and a pang of regret, Becca dumped the firewood from her sled and dragged it over to the man. She rolled him onto his good side again, and then slid the sled under him as far as she could. It took several minutes of nudging, heaving and tugging, but she finally got him centered with a blanket over him and her belongings packed securely around him. She even managed to fit several pieces of wood.

  Settling the rope across her
chest and through her gloved hands, she leaned into the weight and trudged toward her nearly-forgotten home.

  Her hands stung and her legs burned as she dug her boots into the rocky soil and dragged the sled along. The man wasn’t small, but even so, his size was deceiving. She hadn’t pulled anything so heavy since moving her belongings to the cave. By the time they reached the thicket that concealed her old shelter, she was panting like a dog on a summer day and sweating so much that large, wet patches covered her clothes.

  Thank goodness the man was still sleeping. She probably looked a fright.

  An angel from heaven—ha. Becca giggled. If he woke to her now, he might think he’d gone the other way.

  After pausing to rest and take a deep drink from her canteen, she eased through an opening in the foliage and inspected her abandoned dwelling. She’d ducked into it a time or two when she’d been caught in a sudden downpour, but that hadn’t happened for months.

  Becca grasped the edge of the wood slab that formed the sharply-slanted roof and tugged. Still sturdy. The sides made of wood scraps and branches were also intact, and they had been strengthened by invading vines. Nice. She peered around inside as best she could with the burgeoning storm clouds blocking out the light, making high noon as dull as dusk. No being—human or otherwise—had taken up residence. Thank goodness. Now all she had to do was get the man and the supplies moved inside.

  She eyed the dirt floor of the hut. The interior wasn’t much wider than an outhouse, and not nearly as tall, but it was fairly deep. If she could get the sled through the surrounding bushes and trees and into the hidden clearing, she could slide it right in. Not only would it simplify the move, it would give them a smooth floor and raise them several inches above the runoff.

  Becca had to pull the sled around the side of the thicket to reach a space that was wide enough to accommodate it, but she managed. Before long, she was lining it up with opening of the hut and shoving it inside.

  She crouched down and carefully stepped around her patient, arranging her supplies. Then, as the first drops of rain spotted the dusty ground, she secured the large piece of oiled canvas so that it covered the open end of the hut, sealing them in.