"A doctor? For me?"
"Yes. Perhaps he can help you remember who you are."
"I'd like that."
Mr. Kincaid smiled. "Good. Shall we go?"
I was glad to return to my hotel room. I seemed to tire easily. At dinner, Mr. Kincaid had said I had been wounded, though he had not gone into detail. Now, undressing for bed, I saw the scar just under my left breast. The area was still sore, and I fretted over the scar. How ugly it was. As I studied the puckered flesh, it occurred to me that I was lucky to be alive.
But somehow it seemed unimportant. There was a nightgown on my bed and I slipped it over my head and crawled under the covers. The sheets were clean and smelled of sunshine and soap. I snuggled deeper into the blankets. Unaccountably, I began to cry.
It was a long time later when I fell asleep, only to have the same dream I had had earlier in the day.
When I woke in the morning, my cheeks were wet with tears.
The doctor, whose name was Lyman Whitehall, gave me a thorough examination and pronounced me physically healthy. His diagnosis came as no surprise. I had amnesia, he said, caused, in his opinion, as a result of the fall I had taken when I had been shot. Yes, he said, my memory would, in all probability, return in a matter of time. A word, a familiar face, a sudden shock, anything at all might cause my memory to return as suddenly as it had disappeared. On the other hand, there was a possibility that my loss of memory would be permanent. In the meantime, I was not to worry, nor was I to try and force myself to remember the past. Just relax, the doctor advised with a fatherly smile, and rest.
Easy for him to say, I thought irritably. He knew who he was. He wasn't the one feeling lost and alone and frightened.
Mr. Kincaid was quiet on the ride back to the hotel. He held my arm as I stepped from the hired carriage.
"You go to your room and rest awhile, Hannah," he said wearily. "I'm going to look in on Heecha and Mary."
I nodded and climbed the stairs to my room. Inside, I sat in the overstuffed chair near the window and gazed at the street below. People were coming and going, laughing and talking, carrying on with their lives while I sat in a strange room in a strange town, alone, and afraid. Why had my memory suddenly disappeared? Was there something so awful in my past that I had shut it out rather than remember? What if my memory never returned? Why couldn't I remember anything?
That night, at dinner, my father told me the story of my childhood, how we had lived in a beautiful place called Bear Valley. I had liked it there, he said, especially the pine tree forest near our home. Didn't I remember Rabbit's Head Rock? My old mare, Nellie? Shadow, the Indian boy who had been my friend?
"Surely you remember Shadow," my father coaxed. "He came to our house almost every day. Your mother taught him to read and write."
On the verge of tears, I shook my head. "I don't remember," I wailed in despair. "I'll never remember!"
"Calm down, Hannah," my father said kindly. "It will all come back to you. I know it will."
After dinner, we went for a walk around town. Mr. Kincaid bought gifts for Mary and Heecha, a new cream-colored stetson for himself, two dresses, a petticoat, a hat and a pair of shoes for me.
Heecha and Mary chattered excitedly as we went from store to store. They stared in wide-eyed wonder at two Chinamen standing in the doorway of a hand laundry, giggled at a scantily-clad tart leaning over the balcony of a tawdry saloon.
I tried to show some enthusiasm, but I failed miserably. How could I enjoy the sights and sounds of the city when I couldn't even remember who I was, or where I had come from? Heecha and Mary were supposed to be my children, blood of my blood and flesh of my flesh. How could I have born and nursed two children and have no memory of it? I thought of the dresses my father had bought me. One was the color of the sky at dawn, the other was a pale green. Maybe I didn't like blue. Or green. Maybe Mr. Kincaid wasn't my father. Maybe Heecha and Mary were not my children. Maybe . . .
"Say, look at that."
I glanced at the sign Mr. Kincaid was pointing at. It read:
"BUFFALO BILL'S WILD WEST AND CONGRESS OF ROUGH RIDERS OF THE WORLD . . . A congress of American Indians representing various tribes, characters and peculiarities of the wily dusky warriors in scenes from actual life giving their weird war dances and picturesque style of horsemanship."
"I'd like to see that," Heecha exclaimed.
"So would I," Mr. Kincaid agreed. "Says here that the show's coming to town tomorrow. What do you say, Hannah? Would you like to go? We could make a day of it."
"If you like," I said lethargically.
"Me, too!" Mary chimed in.
"Of course, you, too," Mr. Kincaid said enthusiastically. "I've read some of Ned Buntline's penny dreadfuls about Bill Cody. I'd kinda like to see how the man measures up to the legend."
I smiled, but I had no real desire to see William "Buffalo Bill" Cody, or his Indians.
"Did you ever meet Buffalo Bill?" Heecha asked his grandfather.
"No, never did. But I've heard a lot about him over the years. He was born in Iowa back in '46, but moved to Missouri when he was eight or nine. He rode for the Pony Express for a time. Later, he was chief of scouts for the Fifty Cavalry at Fort McPherson in Nebraska Territory. Made quite a name for himself fighting Indians. Of course, his real claim to fame was as a buffalo hunter for the U.P. Railroad. Killed better than four thousand buffalo." Mr. Kincaid laughed. "His favorite gun for hunting buffalo was named Lucretia Borgia. Guess I'm babbling," he said, smiling at me. "You go on upstairs and get some rest, and I'll go pick up some tickets for the show.
"Fine."
"Goodnight, Hannah."
"Goodnight, Mr. Kincaid."
"I wish you'd call me Pa, like you used to."
"Goodnight . . . Pa."
In my room, I undressed, bathed, and slipped into my nightgown. In bed, with the covers pulled up to my chin, I stared into the darkness, afraid to go to sleep. A distant clock chimed the hoursnine, ten, eleven. At last, I could fight it no longer and I closed my eyes.
The same man was in my dreams once again, and once again I was wandering alone in a dark land. Always, the man was ahead of me, just out of reach. I ran as fast as I could, ran until my lungs were on fire, but always he eluded me. Exhausted, I fell to the ground, my legs too weak to support me any longer. I closed my eyes, and felt his presence beside me. His hand touched my face, his mouth met mine. I tried to open my eyes, but my eyelids were so heavy, and I was so tired. His arms went around me, holding me tight, and I felt safe and warm. I knew if I could just open my eyes, I would see his face. I would know who he was, who I was.
With a strangled cry, I opened my eyes to find myself alone in my hotel room.
Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show was a spectacular event. It depicted the actual life of the Indians and the settlers who had lived in the west, fought for it and died for it.
There was a wigwam village, Indian war dances, chants and songs to the Great Spirit, the marching of soldiers, the building of frontier posts, the perilous life of scouts and trappers and settlers.
The grand entrance brought the crowd to its feet. Indians galloped by in war paint and feathersSioux, Cheyenne, Arapahoe. Mexicans and cowboys followed the Indians. There were black-bearded Cossacks and Arabs, German troopers, detachments from the United States Cavalry, Cubans and Puerto Ricans, Texas Rangers and rough riders.
And then, as the music picked up, Buffalo Bill made his entrance. He was handsome, broad-shouldered with long brown hair, a brown goatee, and brown eyes. He was indeed an awesome sight as he rode into the arena decked out in snowy white buckskins and wearing a white sombrero. Mounted on his favorite horse, Charlie, he cantered around the arena, the epitome of what a Western hero should be.
The show was exciting from beginning to end. I loved the color and majesty of the Indians. They sat on their spotted horses as if they were a part of the animal.
Sitting, standing, or hanging precariously over the horse's side, th
ey rode magnificently. The most thrilling spectacle was when the Deadwood stage was attacked by a howling mob of Indians brandishing rifles and tomahawks. Just when the stage seemed doomed, the cavalry came to the rescue amid flashing sabers and thunderous rifle fire.
The show was a huge success. The audience cheered and clapped and stamped their feet when it was over. I, too, had found it highly entertaining and exciting. When my father asked if we would like to walk around the grounds, Heecha and Mary jumped up and down in their eagerness, so I said that I, too, would like to go exploring. And we did.
Heecha was fascinated by the Indians in their colorful native costumes and elaborate feathered headdresses. Mary, who seemed to be a shy, quiet little girl, held fast to her grandfather's hand, refusing to venture from his side.
We were standing at a concession booth, waiting to order some lemonade, when a tall blond man wearing a cavalry uniform happened by. He looked at me, turned away, and then looked at me again, his blue eyes wide with surprise.
''Hannah!" he exclaimed. "Hannah, it is you."
I glanced at my father. He was staring at the man in stunned disbelief, as if he had just seen a ghost. And then his expression grew hard and cold.
"Joshua Berdeen," my father said, his voice flat and unfriendly.
"Hello, Mr. Kincaid," the man called Berdeen replied amiably, never taking his eyes from mine. "Hannah, I've looked everywhere for you."
"Have you? Why?"
"Why?" Berdeen looked genuinely puzzled. "Why? For God's sake, you're my wife, that's why."
Wife! I felt the color drain from my face. Wife. I looked at my father. "You told me my husband was dead."
My father nodded, a troubled look in his eye.
"What the hell's going on here?" Joshua Berdeen demanded.
"Take it easy, Josh," my father admonished, conscious of the many people milling about. "Hannah's had an accident. She doesn't remember you, or anything else."
"Amnesia?" Berdeen mused skeptically. "How?"
"We're not sure. She was wounded a while back. She hit her head when she fell. The doctor said that may have caused it."
Several emotions flitted across Joshua's face and then he said, firmly, "Well, Amnesia or not, she's my wife and there's not a thing you can do about it."
The two men glowered at each other.
My father started to speak, glanced at me, and was silent.
"Listen, Kincaid, why don't we go someplace quiet and talk?" Joshua suggested, his tone and expression affable.
"I think that's probably a good idea," my father agreed. "We're staying at the Palace Hotel. They have a pretty fair dining room there. Does that suit you?"
"Right down to the ground," Berdeen said. "I'll meet you there in an hour."
My father nodded. Together, we watched Berdeen duck into one of the tents set up along the west side of the showgrounds.
"You said he was dead," I murmured, my voice faintly accusing. "Why did you tell me he was dead?"
"I thought he was," my father replied. "You told me he was dead."
"I told you?"
"Yes. Before your accident. Don't you remember?"
"No."
"It doesn't matter. Apparently, he's very much alive."
Our lemonade forgotten, we made our way to our carriage and drove back to the hotel. I dressed carefully for dinner. My dress, a pale cream-colored silk, had a square neckline, a fitted bodice and a flared skirt. I wore my hair down, pulled away from my face by a black velvet ribbon.
Dressing, I could think of nothing but my husband. I felt my cheeks flush as I remembered how he had looked at me, his eyes warm and possessive. What if Mr. Berdeen expected me to live with him? How could I live with a man who was a stranger?
Berdeen was waiting for us when we entered the hotel dining room. He was a handsome man. His dark blond hair was cut short, his skin was tanned from daily exposure to the sun. He was wearing a dark gray suit that emphasized his broad shoulders and long legs. His eyes were very blue, and I felt my cheeks grow hot as I read the desire lurking behind his cordial expression.
He rose politely to his feet as I approached the table. Smiling, he held my chair for me, complimented me on my dress and hair.
"How do you happen to be riding with Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show?" my father asked Berdeen after we ordered dinner.
"It's a long story," Joshua replied. He looked at my father, then at me.
"After the redskin kidnapped Hannah, I left the Army. I searched for her everywhere and when I saw Cody's show, I joined up, hoping that somewhere in our travels, I'd run across Hannah." His blue eyes danced merrily as he looked at me. "As you can see, my hunch paid off."
My father nodded. "Yes."
"Naturally, now that I've found her, I'll quit the show and start looking for a house."
"A house?" I murmured.
"For us," Joshua said, patting my hand. "We are married. You're my wife, and I intend to take care of you from now on, make a home for us."
"How long have we been married?"
"Seven years," Joshua answered.
"But Heecha can't be yours," I mused, puzzled.
"No," Joshua replied thinly. "He's a bastard whelped by the Cheyenne buck who took you from me."
"Josh, mind your language," my father admonished curtly.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Kincaid. Hannah. But the thought of what that redskin did to my wife makes my blood boil."
"What did he do?" I asked, frowning.
"Let's not talk about it now," Josh said.
"Is Mary your daughter?"
"No." Joshua took my hand in his. "Let's talk about something else, shall we? The past is best left in the past. Isn't that right, Mr. Kincaid?"
"I'm not sure," my father remarked slowly. "I have a lot, of questions that need answers."
"I don't think this is the time or the place," Joshua said. "Hannah and I are together again, and that's all that matters."
"Perhaps you're right," my father said dubiously. He looked at me, and I knew he was worried that Joshua might say or do something that would upset me.
Our dinner came then and Josh steered the conversation around to the wild west show and Buffalo Bill. I ate mechanically, not really tasting anything. I was so confused. If only I could remember!
Joshua asked if I would go for a walk with him, alone. My father did not like the idea, but apparently he could think of no valid reason why I should not take a walk with my husband, so he kissed me good-night, shook hands with Berdeen, and went upstairs to check on Heecha and Mary, who had dined in their room with Mrs. Clancy.
Joshua took my arm as we exited the hotel lobby. Turning left, we walked down the street.
"I've missed you," Josh said, squeezing my arm. "You'll never now how much. I didn't think I'd ever see you again."
There was no mistaking the love shining in his eyes, or the sincerity in his voice.
"Were we happy, Joshua?"
"Of course," he answered quickly. "And we'll be happy again. You'll see."
"If only I could remember."
"It doesn't matter," Joshua assured me with a benign smile. "We're together again and that's what counts. We'll make new memories, Hannah, and they'll be good ones."
"Where are we going?" I asked as we passed the last store and kept walking into the darkened space beyond the town proper.
"Nowhere. I just wanted a chance to be alone with you. Hannah, I love you. I've loved you ever since I first met you."
"Mr. Berdeen . . . Joshua."
"You've got to trust me, Hannah, darling. I'll find a house for us tomorrow and we can get on with our marriage."
"Tomorrow?"
"I can't wait any longer, Hannah."
With a low groan, he swept me into his arms and kissed me deeply, passionately. I returned his kiss because he was my husband and because I didn't want to hurt his feelings, but I felt nothing. Nothing at all.
Josh was breathing deeply when we parted. "Hannah, don't make me wai
t any longer," he rasped, his hands caressing my back and shoulders. "I want you so much."
"We can't," I said quickly. "Not here." The thought of letting him make love to me filled me with revulsion, but some primal instinct warned me not to let Joshua know I did not find him attractive sexually.
"You're right," he agreed, smiling wanly. He brightened suddenly. "The hotel! We can go there."
"Josh, please, this is all so sudden. I know you're my husband and have every right, but . . . I . . . I don't remember anything. It would be like making love to a stranger." I smiled up at him. "Please give me a little time."
Joshua let out a long sigh. I saw his hands clench at his sides. "Very well, Hannah," he said at last. "I'll try not to rush you. But don't make me wait too long."
"I won't," I promised. "Could we go back to the hotel now? I'm cold."
Later, alone in my bed, I wondered how I was going to live in the same house with a man who was a stranger to me. And yet, he seemed nice enough, his manners were impeccable, and he was quite handsome . . . still, if he were my husband, wouldn't I feel something for him?
Deeply troubled, I fell asleep.
The same dark, faceless man haunted my dreams.
X
Shadow Rebecca Matthews stared, unbelieving, at the Indian seated on the edge of her bed. She opened her mouth, closed it slowly, too stunned to utter a word. He was here. After all these years, he was here. She had thought never to see him again. Bright color crept up her slender neck and flooded her cheeks as she recalled the intimacies she had shared with the handsome man who was staring back at her, a faint smile touching his lips.
"Hello, white lady," he said quietly, and Rebecca felt her heart flutter queerly. He had called her that when they first met. It had been a term of derision then, now it had the sound of an endearment.
"Hello," Rebecca replied tremulously.
Another long moment passed while they studied each other. Rebecca's eyes devoured the only man she had loved or desired since her husband died almost ten years ago. Two Hawks Flying. The name whispered through her mind, unlocking memories, conjuring up images of grassy prairies and hide-covered tepees scattered beneath a wild blue sky.
Reckless Love Page 9
