Page 15 of A Rugged Beauty
His memories painted images of soft light and trees, leaves, a little creek. The scent of mud, brown and rich and fragrant with decay came strongly, a visceral memory.
"By yourself?" Her whisper barely registered.
"No." Childish laughter rang in his head. "With my brother. And my father."
He could see his father’s serious expression. Pa was always serious. The memory brought on a tender feeling of affection that was all-encompassing. The knowledge settled somewhere deep inside the man. Pa. And Peter.
"We must've fished for hours," he told her. "Until the sun began to go down and our damp clothes became unbearable."
"My father taught me to clean a fish." The memory settled over him as he told it. His pa’s scarred hands, patient explanation. The knowledge of what he must do to get their breakfast ready. "I can still remember the taste of it, breaded and coming out of that frying pan on our old stove."
His tongue almost felt singed anew with the memory of the hot, buttery goodness.
His stomach rumbled loudly, breaking him out of the hazy thoughts. They drifted away like dander on a fierce spring breeze and he felt the loss keenly.
"My father was a good teacher," he recalled. He felt the love and security of those moments in his memory.
"You must be just like him," she murmured.
He blinked at her words, then noticed the tension ratchet up in the end of her line.
"Pull now." He reached for her, but she had already tugged the wriggly fish up onto the bank.
She squealed a bit, danced as it flopped toward her feet.
A laugh escaped him. It sounded rusty. Why did it sound like that?
He scooped up the fish before it could flop back into the water. "Good work."
Her eyes were warm, and for a moment, another memory flashed. A woman in a beautiful pale pink dress, flowers clutched against her midsection. A feeling of love so overwhelming that he caught his breath in the present moment.
One blink and the memory was gone, so quickly that he realized he hadn't seen the woman's face.
A wedding. His wedding. He was sure of it.
A strong, protective urge rose up inside of him. If Sparrow was his wife, he must do everything he could to keep her safe.
Up until this moment, there'd been a vague feeling of partnership with her in this strange world he'd woken up in—a world of no memories. Something had broken free along with the memory of his pa.
But this new feeling was different. A threat.
Run!
The shifting currents beneath the water, the rustling in the grass, the shadows amongst the woods. All of them seemed menacing.
He'd told her yesterday that staying in place would mean their best chance of being found, being rescued, but was that true? They'd had success fishing this morning, but what if tomorrow the fish didn't bite?
Clouds drifted together on the far horizon, pushed by the brisk breeze. For a fraction of a second, a thought skittered through his mind that a storm was coming.
He couldn't know that.
But the sense of unease didn't lift.
Ten lost.
Ten days lost?
Was it eleven now? Or twelve, or maybe even thirteen? He didn't know how much time had been taken by the sickness and memory loss that plagued them. What if the help he hoped was coming, didn't exist?
