Eve stifled a gasp. Was this man a relative? A friend? Whoever he was, he deserved her compassion even if she didn’t recognize him. “I’d like to speak with him if he’s able.”
The sheriff guided them through the maze of injured, many swathed in red-stained white bandages. This must resemble a battlefield hospital. The thought skittered through Eve’s mind as she tried to filter out the sound of moans and weeping. At last the sheriff stopped beside a cot where a man lay covered in a faded patchwork quilt, likely a donation from caring locals.
Reluctant to wake the dosing man, Eve studied his pallid features, partially covered by a stubbly auburn beard and mustache. Neither homely nor especially handsome, helooked to be in his midthirties. Nothing about him triggered recognition. The disappointment that realization sparked flickered out when Eve’s gaze wandered to the bottom half of the cot. Only on the left side did a long hump beneath the quilt indicate a leg. On the right side, the quilt lay flat against the cot, and Eve experienced a flash of sympathy followed by a wave of gratitude. This could have been her.
“Mr. Trowbridge.” The sheriff’s voice intruded on Eve’s grim musings. “Mr. Trowbridge, you have visitors.”
The man’s eyelids fluttered and opened to slits, which he trained at first on the sheriff. When his drowsy gaze slid to Eve, his eyes widened, and a smile straightened his mustache to a penciled line above his lips. “Well, hello, Pretty. Glad you came.” He winked. “Unless I died and you’re welcoming me to the pearly gates.” He glanced at John. “But somehow I’m guessing the fellow with you and the sheriff isn’t Saint Peter.”
“John Weston. A friend.”
Eve saw no need to expand on John’s brief introduction. Instead, she focused her full attention on the injured man. “I’m so sorry for your injury, Mr. Trowbridge.” The words blurted from her lips.
A grin stretched his mouth wider. “If I’d known losing a leg would have won your affection, I might have cut the thing off myself back on the train.”
“Then you know me?” Eve studied his features for any scrap of familiarity.
“In what sense?” His grin turned mischievous.
“Be very careful, friend.” Though measured, John’s low voice carried an unmistakable warning.
Trowbridge’s expression sobered. “You don’t remember me?”
Eve shook her head, hating the tears filling her eyes. “I don’t remember… anything.”
“I see.” Genuine concern flashed across the man’s face. “Then I reckon you didn’t come out entirely unscathed.”
Eve ignored his comment, her heart racing. “My name. Did I tell you my name?”
He shook his head, dashing her hopes. “No, I’m sorry to say our meeting was far too brief.” He gave her a sad smile. “Wasn’t able to wheedle it out of you.” His countenance brightened. “You might have told the lady sitting next to you, though.” His brow furrowed in thought. “O’Reilly. I think I heard someone refer to her as Mrs. O’Reilly.”
“O’Reilly.” Eve’s mind churned. Nothing. Then new hope bloomed among a thorn patch of concern. Could this woman be her mother or some other relative? “Did she say if she was related to me in some way?”
Grinning, he gave a wry snort. “She made it emphatically clear that she was not. At least that she was not your mother, correcting me when I made that assumption. I got the sense that you were seatmates by chance, became acquainted on the train.”
“I see.” Another hope withered, forcing Eve to blink away more tears.
“Hey, there. I’m sure it will all come back to you soon.” His voice turned kind, and Eve experienced a flash of shame. She should be consoling him, not the other way around.
“The loss of a leg is far worse than the loss of memory. You are the one who deserves condolences, Mr. Trowbridge, not me.”
“Elmer, please.” He reached his hand up to her. “Elmer Trowbridge, stove salesman extraordinaire. Nice to make your acquaintance… again.” His grin widened.
Eve took his hand, marveling at the strength of his grasp considering the traumahe’d experienced. “Until I learn my real name, I’m being called Eve. It’s nice to make your acquaintance, too, Elmer.”
“Eve. I like it. Apropos, I’d say, since they tell me this place is called Eden.” He gave a little chortle. “Just wish my name was Adam.”
John cleared his throat. “Thank you, Mr. Trowbridge. We won’t tire you any further.” He glanced over the cot-strewn room. “Do you happen to know if the Mrs. O’Reilly you spoke of is here?”
Elmer’s head rolled against the pillow. “Couldn’t tell ya, but I do know the doc has a list of patients’ names.”
Sheriff McCord turned and headed across the room, Eve assumed, to check the doctor’s patient list.
“Thanks.” John’s tone gentled. “I’m sorry for your misfortune, Mr. Trowbridge, and I’ll be keeping you in my prayers. Is there someone, family perhaps, who we could contact for you?”
Elmer shifted his gaze to John. “I appreciate that, Mr. Weston. Never been an especially religious man, but a good word or two on my behalf would be appreciated. As for family…” He shrugged. “Grew up an orphan, but the doc has telegraphed my company. They’ll be sending someone next week to put me on a train back to Cleveland.” He quirked a sardonic grin. “Who knows? This could be the best thing that ever happened to me.” He winked at Eve. “It’ll be a lot harder for customers to turn down a cripple.” For the first time, a hint of sorrow crept into his voice.
“Is there anything I can do for you? Anything you need?” Eve’s heart went out to her fellow passenger.
A mischievous glint flickered in Elmer’s eyes, but a glance at John doused it. “I could use a glass of water.” He rubbed his throat. “Throat’s a bit dry.”
“Of course.” With a parting smile to Elmer, Eve followed John to where the sheriff stood talking with Dr. Callahan.
The doctor’s kind eyes regarded Eve as they neared. “I’m so glad to see you up and about. How is that head wound?” He examined the sore spot above her left eyebrow.
“It only hurts when I touch it.”
“Hmm.” He bounced a smile of approval between her and John. “Looks like Clara is doing a fine job keeping this clean. No sign of infection. Should heal completely in a week or so.” His smile faded. “I understand your memory has not returned.”
“No. Sheriff McCord thought it might help my memory to talk with folks from my train car.”
“But it hasn’t.” His rhetorical comment held no hint of question. With his arms crossed over the chest of his long white coat, Dr. Callahan tipped his head to one side and looked at her as if studying a laboratory specimen.
“No.” The defeated tone in her voice annoyed her. Something inside her hated the thought of needing sympathy, or worse, looking as if seeking it. “So far I’ve only talked with Mr. Trowbridge, and it seems I never told him my name. He does think I may have told a Mrs. O’Reilly.”
Dr. Callahan shared a glance with the sheriff, and his tone turned consoling. “I’m very sorry, Eve, but the only person listed with that surname is a Bridget O’Reilly, and she is among the fatalities.”
“Oh.” Another disappointment. Unexpected sadness curled in Eve’s chest. Even if her acquaintance with Bridget O’Reilly had been a passing one, knowing that Eve had conversed with the woman, perhaps shared a laugh with her, made her inability to remember those exchanges feel like an insult to the dead woman. She couldn’t help Bridget O’Reilly, but she could still help Elmer. “Mr. Trowbridge requested a glass of water. Do you know where I might get that for him?”
The doctor cocked his head to the left. “There’s a pump and sink in the other room. Nurses should be able to provide you with a glass.”
On her way to fetch the water, Eve waded through the cots of suffering humanity, resisting the urge to stop and ask if anyone remembered her. Blank stares from pain-ridden faces suggested that such inquiries would prove fruitless.
A fe
w minutes later, water glass in hand, she headed back to the room where Elmer lay. Opening a door she thought would lead to the room of cots, she found herself outside the school building. She started to head back in when she heard a familiar voice: Sheriff McCord.
“I’ve made up my mind, John. I can’t take a chance on losing this woman. I promised the police chief in Buffalo that she’d be here when his man arrives to verify her identity. Frankly, I’m not sure I can trust you with that, so I’m asking the doc to commit her to the Indiana Hospital for the Insane.”
Chapter Five
The sound of breaking glass behind him jerked John’s attention from the sheriff’s retreating figure.
“Can he do that?” Eve stood on the concrete walkway, her blue eyes wide with fear. At her feet lay what looked to be the shattered remnants of a drinking glass amid a puddle of water.
John’s heart, which had stopped beating, convulsed. “I won’t let that happen, Eve. I promise.” Praying he could keep that promise, he stepped to her. The urge to protect her, to cradle her head against his chest, became overwhelming. He reached out to gather her into his arms, but she knelt and began picking up the larger pieces of the broken glass.
“I’ve made a mess.” The quaver in her voice broke his heart. “I was trying to find my way back to Elmer, but I got lost.” A brave smile wobbled on her lips—lips that looked as soft and pink as a rose petal. “It seems I’m always getting lost.”
How John wished he could fix her broken memory, but he couldn’t. Instead, he did what he could for her. He knelt and cupped her hand holding the shards of glass. “I’ll take care of this.” He wanted to add “I’ll take care of you,” but the words caught in his throat. She didn’t need more disappointments, and he’d already promised more than he knew he could deliver. “Go get Elmer another glass of water, and I’ll meet you inside in a few minutes.”
She nodded, relinquishing the shards of glass to his waiting hand. “Thank you, John.” The gratitude in her blue eyes, brimming with unshed tears, told him that her thanks encompassed more than his cleaning up this little pile of glass.
Watching Eve disappear into the school building, John’s resolve to keep her out of the state hospital solidified. Despite Sid’s suspicions, John’s gut, or perhaps his heart, told him she was neither criminal nor insane, and he wouldn’t leave this place without a promise from Doc Callahan not to commit her to the Indiana Hospital for the Insane.
Later, with that promise secured and his mind easier, John helped Eve onto the wagon for their trip home.
A ways down the road, he turned to her. “Dr. Callahan’s not inclined to have you committed to the state hospital.” He regretted blurting it out the moment the words left his mouth.
For a long moment, Eve didn’t respond. Fearing she might faint, he pulled the wagon to a stop. She expelled a ragged breath. A visible battle to control her emotions played across her pale features, and he marveled at her strength. At length she looked up at him, her blue eyes, which always reminded him of an October sky, clear. She covered his handholding the reins with hers, sending pleasant tingles up his arm. “Thank you. Thank you, John.”
John’s heart bucked, and he cleared the emotion from his throat. In another moment he would gather her into his arms, so he flicked the reins against the horse’s back, and the wagon began rolling down the road again. “It’s Doc Callahan you should thank.”
“But you fought for me, and I appreciate that.” Her lighter tone turned serious. “Why did Sheriff McCord say he can’t trust you?”
John stiffened at the unexpected question, then winced at the painful memory it evoked. He recoiled at the thought of recounting the distasteful event, especially to Eve. But better she learn it from him than from casual gossip she might hear around the community. He blew out a fortifying breath. “Two years ago I worked as a sergeant on the Indianapolis police force. One day some patrolmen brought three members of a pickpocket ring into the station, and I was assigned to guard them while they waited to be processed.” He swallowed to moisten his drying throat as the awful memories played through his mind.
“What happened?” Her gentle prompting gave him courage to continue sharing the experience.
“One of the suspects, a woman, complained that her handcuffs were cutting into her wrists.” John squeezed his eyes shut, but the events of two years ago refused to go away. Opening them again, he focused on the horse’s glossy dark rump. “The police manual’s rules of arrest state, ‘Officers are enjoined, in making arrests, to act with kindness, to use no more force than is necessary.’ So I did as she asked, and loosened them. If only I hadn’t. If only…” He shook his head, but the motion wouldn’t dislodge the memory of what happened next. Another deep breath. He might as well finish it. “While I was taking the statement of one of her cohorts, the woman prisoner maneuvered her hands out of the shackles, ran and grabbed a patrolman’s sidearm and shot him to death, then ran from the station.”
Eve emitted a tiny gasp. “Oh John, I am so sorry.”
John shrugged and unclenched his aching jaws. “They caught the woman and tried and convicted her of murder. The review board exonerated me of misconduct, citing the rule I quoted, but a man died because of my actions. I have to live with that.” He forced another swallow past his tightening throat. “I was charged with poor judgment and drummed out of the force. I don’t blame Sid for not trusting me.” An involuntary snort huffed from his nose. “I can see how your case must seem to him like history repeating itself.”
Eve’s tone turned defensive. “I’m not going anywhere, and I certainly don’t plan to shoot anyone.” Her posture stiffened. “I don’t know if I had anything to do with robbing that bank in New York, but I’m fairly certain I know nothing of guns, or even how to shoot one.”
The wagon stopped, and John realized they were home. He shouldn’t have told her. Of course it would sound to her like he was equating her with the woman who’d duped him two years ago. “I wasn’t accusing you, Eve.”
Before he could make another move, she scrambled down from the wagon and strode to the house.
Watching her poker-straight back disappear through the kitchen door, John’s heartsagged with his shoulders, and he blew out a frustrated breath. When would he ever learn to think before he spoke?
But later, while unhitching the horse from the wagon, the memory of Eve’s abrupt attitude shift began to scratch at his suspicious cop nerve. The quote from Shakespeare’s Hamlet sprang to mind: “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”
As much as John hated to admit it, he could no more prove Eve’s innocence than Sid could prove her guilt. While he no longer wore the badge, he still possessed his police training and instincts. He must resolve to follow the evidence wherever it led and not allow Eve’s considerable charms to blind him to clues that might point to her guilt.
Over the next two weeks, despite John’s best intentions, Eve daily destroyed his resolve with a look, a laugh, a touch, or a smile like the one she was sending him this very moment.
“How is the cow?” She looked up from helping Clara fill jelly jars with steaming dark liquid and trained those devastating blue eyes on him, turning his mind to mush.
John stepped into the kitchen and forced his mind from the tantalizing lock of red-gold hair curling against Eve’s creamy temple and back to his best milk cow that had gone into labor. “She seems to be progressing normally.” His heart hammering like a woodpecker’s beak against a dead tree, he leaned a shoulder against the wall and managed a tepid smile. Why did the woman have to be so beautiful? “We should have a new calf today.” Dismay at his own weak will curdled in John’s belly. Did he have no defense against her charms? How could he ever assess her with a critical eye?
Aunt Clara wiped her berry-stained hands on a kitchen towel. “Well, I’m praying for a heifer. We could use another milk cow to add to the herd.”
That moment the back door burst open, and Matt stumbled in, his eyes wild.
>
“John, come quick! I think Ginger is dying!”
Chapter Six
Stunned mute, Eve watched John bolt from the kitchen with Matthew in his wake. During her almost three weeks at the farm, she’d learned that Ginger was both a favorite and valuable milk cow. She looked at Clara, whose face scrunched in concern. “Sure would hate to lose that cow.” The older woman shook her head, her hand a bit shaky as she spooned molten wax into jars of blackberry jelly. She lifted her chin and gave a sharp sniff—something Eve had noticed Clara do when worried, as if steeling herself against trouble. She gave Eve a brave smile, but her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “Ginger is one of the last calves I helped Phil birth.”
“I’m so sorry, Clara.” Eve gave Clara’s shoulder a hug. “I hope Ginger makes it, and her calf, too.”
Clara turned to Eve and took her hands in hers. “Will you pray with me, Eve?”
The same uncomfortable feeling that always curled in Eve’s midsection during the family’s prayer time struck again. “I…” She felt herself lean back, away from Clara, but the pain in the older woman’s eyes compelled her to acquiesce. Offering a warm smile, she squeezed Clara’s hands. “Of course I will.”
Clara’s head bowed, and she closed her eyes. “Dear Lord, I’m sure You’ve got more pressin’ things to attend to, but if You could see fit, I sure would appreciate it if You took a moment to look down on our Ginger and her new calf and bring them through this perilous birth.” That sharp sniff again. “It’s a little thing, Lord, but that cow, well, she’s somewhat special to me, bein’ the last calf Phil named and all.” Her voice cracked, and Eve squeezed Clara’s hands, hoping to offer the other woman some comfort and support.
Another sniff, softer this time, but Clara’s hands relaxed in Eve’s, and a more peaceful tone came into her voice. “ ‘We know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.’ So we ask for Your favor in this, but we accept Your will, knowin’ You want only the best for us. We ask this in Jesus’ name and for His sake. Amen.”
The Rails to Love Romance Collection Page 23
