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His Forgotten Fiancée
Evelyn M. Hill
Suddenly ReunitedLiza Fitzpatrick is stunned when her fiancé finally arrives in Oregon City—with amnesia. Matthew Dean refuses to honor a marriage proposal he doesn’t recall, and Liza is forced to consider he may not have loved her after all. But she needs his help now to bring in the harvest, and maybe she can help him remember…Matthew is attracted to the spirited Liza, and as she tries to help him regain his old memories, the new ones they’re creating together start to make him feel whole. Even as he falls for her again, though, someone’s determined to keep them apart. Will his memory return in time to save their future?
Suddenly Reunited
Liza Fitzpatrick is stunned when her fiancé finally arrives in Oregon City—with amnesia. Matthew Dean refuses to honor a marriage proposal he doesn’t recall, and Liza is forced to consider he may not have loved her after all. But she needs his help now to bring in the harvest, and maybe she can help him remember...
Matthew is attracted to the spirited Liza, and as she tries to help him regain his old memories, the new ones they’re creating together start to make him feel whole. Even as he falls for her again, though, someone’s determined to keep them apart. Will his memory return in time to save their future?
“Do I pass muster?” Matthew raised one eyebrow.
Liza snapped her attention back to the present. “I’m sorry?”
“You’re staring.”
She swallowed her disappointment. For a moment, she had expected him to be his old self again, holding out his hands to her and smiling. The new Matthew did not behave like that.
Sorrow for the loss filled her, something precious as gold slipping through her fingers. If ever he loved her, that part of him was forgotten. Maybe he’d never loved her at all. How could she tell?
“Yes, it’ll do.” She hefted the basket with her shopping, but he slipped it out from her grasp. He offered her his left arm, escorting her down Main Street for all the world as if he were promenading down the finest street in St. Louis on a Sunday afternoon. Despite her sadness, she spared a moment to be amused by his air. He had always treated her like a rare precious object. Right up to the point he had left.
According to family tradition, EVELYN M. HILL is descended from a long line of horse thieves. (But when your family is both Texan and Irish, tall tales come with the territory.) That might explain why she grew up writing horse stories. These days, the stories feature a handsome cowboy, as well. She lives at the end of the Oregon Trail, where she gets to do her historical research in person.
His Forgotten Fiancée
Evelyn M. Hill
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For now we see through a glass, darkly;
but then face to face: now I know in part;
but then shall I know even as also I am known.
—1 Corinthians 13:12
For the two Kit Carsons in my life, blazing a trail for the rest of us.
Contents
Cover (#u797c6510-5586-5ea9-b7fa-80a7f2e49e2f)
Back Cover Text (#u88572000-fcd4-5a18-a3b8-aa86514ad99a)
Introduction (#ua98bb0b9-e075-5812-b4d1-393d0752f339)
About the Author (#uaf66e8ed-2416-5ec6-a0ae-2ea7206c44d3)
Title Page (#u37fda859-45a2-5d03-b017-3ae7430a9fdd)
Bible Verse (#u5ba8d3f1-434c-5816-8bb8-647f05f26133)
Dedication (#ua2807ba1-5bcc-5dee-b065-2bbabd6f9ea7)
Chapter One (#ub3145603-f765-52e9-9b52-03304081f4bb)
Chapter Two (#u6f8ce338-116c-5171-8ab8-55c87a7a5cda)
Chapter Three (#u3197e797-d9e5-58eb-b5dd-712ab36b8f44)
Chapter Four (#ue8cde667-be7b-5e9f-8358-6c1e6938e1ad)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ud100dbc8-f35c-5c98-82b4-4df944f68658)
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.
The front door opened. Old Granny Whitlow stomped in, bringing a rush of cool evening air with her. “What’s this I hear? Some man barged in here?” She looked around. “Where’s he now, then? Don’t just stand there, girl!”
“He’s resting. I don’t want to disturb him.” Liza shut the door behind Granny. She only wished she could close the door on this conversation, as well. She had wanted a chance to talk to Matthew privately first.
“Humph.” Granny did not look impressed. As one of the founding members of the Ladies’ Social Club, she seemed to feel it was her duty to collect and spread the latest news among the townspeople. “I was hoping to get a look at the fella.”
“He’s been injured,” Liza said. “There’s really no need for you to stay. He’s not going to hurt me.”
The dry goods store served as the social center for the women of the town, so Mrs. McKay had placed a couple of rocking chairs by the fire for visitors, and a table with Mr. McKay’s prized chess set on it. Granny settled herself in one of the rocking chairs and then looked up at Liza. “You sound pretty certain about a total stranger.”
“He’s not a stranger. His name is Matthew Dean. I don’t want Mr. Brown to know he’s here, not until I’ve had a chance to talk to Matthew, but...” Liza’s voice trailed off. This was harder than she had expected. She had to force the words out. “He’s the man I got betrothed to on the trail.”
The silence was so profound that she could hear the tinny piano being played all the way down in Vandehey’s saloon.
“Well, if that don’t beat all. You’ve been refusing offers left and right on account of your being promised to some man none of us have ever seen, and here he pops up all out of nowhere.” Granny nodded her head.
Liza felt her cheeks growing warm. “When he went off down the California Trail instead of coming on to Oregon with me, he promised he’d come up once he’d gotten a stake, and then we’d get married. It just took longer than I thought, that’s all.”
“Months and months. California’s full of them pretty Spanish girls, I do hear.”
“He loves me.” Was she trying to convince the other woman or herself? Liza shoved that thought aside. “He asked me to marry him, and he’s an honorable man.”
“Humph. Men change their minds just as much as women do. If he was coming up here to marry you and all, why was he down there all that time and never sent you a letter?” Granny spoke triumphantly, hammering the final nail in the coffin.
Every word she said was true, but Liza didn’t want to hear it all the same. “He asked me to marry him. He promised he’d come back to me. Now he has.”
Granny said skeptically, “And he just happened to wander straight to your door? Just you go and fetch those quilts from up in the loft. I can’t manage that ladder, but no matter. I’ll be comfy as anything right here in this chair for the night.”
Liza got a couple of quilts for herself as well, spreading one across the other rocking chair. “Anyone in town knows I’ve been minding the dry goods store while the McKays are upriver. He could have been given directions here before he was injured.” Granny still looked skeptical. “And, of course, this was the only place still open, apart from the saloon.”
“You really shouldn’t keep the store open this late. I’ll help you put up the shutters.”
“No.” Liza put out a hand to stop her. “I can’t close up the store yet. I’m waiting for someone.”
Granny narrowed her eyes. “At this hour? Who?”
As Liza started to answer, the door was pushed open again. The man in the doorway was of medium height, slim, with brown hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. There was nothing remarkable about his appearance, but dread curled into a knot in Liza’s stomach. “Good evening, Mr. Brown.”
“Good evening.” He nodded to Granny. “Mrs. Whitlow.” He paused. “Might I speak with you privately, Miss Fitzpatrick? Perhaps we could use the other room. There is a matter I would like to discuss with you.”
“No,” Liza said quickly. “We can talk here. It is all right if Granny stays.”
