His Forgotten Fiancée. Evelyn M. Hill

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       Chapter One

      Oregon City

      Oregon Territory, 1851

      “Who am I?”

      Liza Fitzpatrick dropped the cleaning rag onto the counter of the dry goods store and spun around. A man stood in the doorway, his rough, working-class clothes soaked through. He was staring at her as if she were the first woman he’d ever seen.

      Ten steps to the back room, half a minute to grab Pa’s rifle. She might be able to make it. Sober, the long-legged man could easily outpace her. But not the way he was swaying from side to side. It was getting dark outside, and she found it difficult to guess his age in the light from the single lantern, but beneath the beard and the bedraggled brown hair that fell to his shoulders, he looked under thirty.

      “Well?” Impatience edged his tone like a well-honed knife.

      She cleared her throat. “Um...good evening. Mr. Vandehey, three doors down, serves liquor—”

      “That’s the last thing I need.” He sagged against the door frame, his head drooping.

      She took a couple of cautious steps closer, to get a better look at the man. Red streaks trailed down his forehead. “You’re hurt!”

      His head came up. “Obviously.” Those thick eyebrows could have been designed to scowl at her. His dark eyes woke the memory of a pain that she had thought buried safely away. Recognition twisted inside her like a knife plunged straight into her heart. He said, “Do you know who I am?”

      “You don’t know?” She stared at him. This encounter was starting to take on the unreal qualities of a nightmare. That was ironic, considering she had been dreaming of this moment for months. She had imagined all the different ways the scene would play out—or she thought she had.

      “I am trying to be patient, madam.” The man spoke with a cultured accent at odds with his wild mountain-man appearance. “I would appreciate the courtesy of an answer to my one—simple—question. Do you know who I am?”

      “Yes,” she said. “You are the man I am going to marry.”

      He swayed against the door frame, sliding slowly down to the ground in a faint.

      Liza had thought she would never see him again.

      She looked down at the man sprawled on the floor. His eyes were shut, dark lashes long against his pale skin. Liza had a thousand questions that needed answers, but now was not the time, not when Matthew Dean lay passed out at her feet.

      Her emotions were in a whirl. She had been waiting for this day for over a year, hoping for it, praying for it, sometimes almost dreading it. And now that he had finally come back to her, it didn’t seem real. She crouched down, pushing up his sleeve to put her fingers against his wrist. His skin was cold, but his pulse beat strongly against her hand. For a moment he responded to her touch, his fingers curving to grasp her hand. He murmured something under his breath, and then his hand drooped.

      She didn’t know whether she should laugh or cry. He had been gone for so long, without a word. Why had he come back now?

      Her mother had always told her that the Lord never sent you anything unless He had faith in your ability to withstand it. Sometimes, she wished the Lord didn’t have quite so much faith in her.

      She fetched Jim Barnes from the livery stable on the corner to help her get the unconscious man into the bed in the back room. Jim cleaned him up while Liza dug up some dry clothes. Mr. McKay, the owner of the dry goods store, was shorter and much wider, but his homespun trousers and red-checked shirt would have to do. Matthew’s clothes weren’t merely damp, they were soaked through. She rubbed the rough, sodden fabric between her fingers, then spread the clothes out by the fireplace in the front room. They hadn’t had rain in weeks. He must have fallen into the river to get this wet.

      Jim came out of the back room, shutting the door quietly behind him. “Restless man, won’t hardly lie still,” he said. “Like there’s something burning a hole in him.”

      “How badly is he hurt? Memory loss sounds pretty serious. I should probably send for the doctor.” She frowned, torn between worry and frustration.

      “Doc Graham won’t be back until tomorrow, but I don’t think he’s in bad shape,” Jim reassured her. “Just that cut on his head, which has already stopped bleeding. Looks like he got roughed up some, is all.”

      “I appreciate your help.” Liza hesitated. Jim, placid and unflappable, had accepted her explanation that the man was her fiancé without any questions. But other people would be more curious, asking questions she did not know the answers to. I need to know where I stand. I need to know why he came back after all this time. “I’d appreciate it if you did not mention this incident to anyone. Not tonight.”

      He gave her a look that was unexpectedly shrewd. “Anyone like Mr. Brown, you mean? I won’t say a word to him about it, but I’ll send Granny Whitlow over to keep you company. Wouldn’t be proper, otherwise.”

      Matthew was hardly in a position to pose a threat to any woman at the moment, but Liza nodded. “Thank you, Jim.”

      After he left, she began to tidy up, sweeping the floor and straightening the goods on the shelves. The dry goods store was the front room of the McKays’ home. It still had the original puncheon floor and the cat-and-clay fireplace that was used for cooking and to heat the house, but the walls were filled with shelves of nails, rope and harnesses, as well as the latest bolts of fabric off ships from Boston and New York. The back room was the family’s private area, and the children slept up in the loft. Liza had agreed to mind the store for the McKays when they went upriver to Champoeg to celebrate their eldest son’s wedding.

      It was getting late, but she could not close up the store yet; there was one more visitor coming to see her tonight. She was already dreading it. Meeting with Mr. Brown was never pleasant.

      It was possible that no one had noticed Matthew’s arrival tonight. There were a lot of strangers in town these days. In the year since Liza had come, the town of Oregon City had doubled in size. More people were coming in from the trail each week, making their way around Mount Hood on the Barlow Road or risking the passage down the Columbia River past The Dalles, all eager to claim land.

      She recognized that longing; it was what had led her and her pa to take the Oregon Trail. It was all she had ever wanted since she was a child—a place she could call her own. No one to look down on her for being the daughter of an Irish immigrant. Here, they were all immigrants together. This was a place where she could put down roots. She could have a family—She winced away from the thought. It led back to the man lying unconscious in the bed in the other room.

      It had been almost a year since she’d last seen him. Perhaps he had an explanation for what he’d done. Perhaps he had come to apologize.

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