Page 35 of A Rugged Beauty
The determination was new. H had been the one pushing yesterday. He could only guess how many miles they'd gone. His feet still ached from it.
Today, he felt resigned. If they hadn't found any sign of a camp or wagon train yesterday, just how far had they been washed downstream?
Worse, he'd realized not long after they'd started walking this morning that any tracks or sign of others likely would've been washed away by the strong rains. If anyone was out looking for them, the scouts might miss them altogether.
The only thing that kept him pushing this morning was the knowledge that whoever had attacked him last night was still out there. He couldn't keep from glancing over his shoulder. He felt as if there was a target painted on his back. And underneath it all was a blanket of grief over the memory that had surfaced last night. Charles's last breaths. His laugh. Missing him in every moment.
The quiet became too much. H blurted, "If we don't find a place to fish soon, it might be best to stop and figure how to lay a snare. It might take some time, but we could catch a rabbit or some other critter."
Her eyes darted to him and then back to the horizon. She worried her bottom lip between her teeth.
He hadn't heard her humming all morning. He hadn't realized it was bothering him until the moment it became clear in his mind. He'd grown used to her sweet notes as she'd hiked along all day yesterday and a few times the day before in their camp. Now it was like an itch he couldn't scratch.
She pointed toward the western horizon. Still didn’t stop. "Don't you think we should keep moving? Surely we must be catching up with the company by now."
There seemed to be both an urgency and a worry in her statement.
"I'm a little concerned," he confessed. “They may have moved on without us. We know we've been on our own for at least three days. And last night's rain would've washed away any tracks—ours or those of a company. Maybe they think we're dead. Maybe they've left."
Yet the statement felt off, like a chime ringing in his head at the wrong frequency.
She shook her head, her lips firming. "I—I regained more of my memories early this morning."
She had? The momentary elation was eclipsed by the question of why she hadn't mentioned it before now. They'd been up and moving for at least two hours.
Her eyes darted away from his glance. Had she remembered something unsavory about their relationship? Had they been in a fight when they'd been swept away by the river? His next step crunched a burned clump of grass.
"I remembered our company," she said tightly. "Our friends. Owen Mason, one of your captains. And August, his brother. A talented scout."
She glanced at him questioningly, but he shook his head. The names didn't unlock anything in his shadowy memories. They were simply names.
"Felicity, the woman—" She cut herself off. "My friend." At her side, her hand flexed and then balled into a fist. "They wouldn't leave us behind."
She sounded certain. Enough that he wanted to believe her, even if he had no memories of his own of these people she spoke of.
"You remembered a lot," he murmured.
She rubbed a hand over her brow, leaving a streak of mud high on her left cheek. "I think... I think before the crossing, we were traveling on that side of the river." She waved across the span of the churning water. "I remember falling in. My wagon brushed against a beehive. Bees started stinging me—and the oxen. You were on your horse..."
He closed his hand over hers and she blinked out of the memory. Her breaths had grown more rapid. He didn't want her to be frightened, not now.
"What are our names?" His voice contained a breathless note. A sense of being on a precipice. Her words stirred something inside him.
He used her hand to tug her to a stop, to force her to face him.
Her eyes were big in her face. "My name is Abigail."
She watched him closely. He wished that hearing her name unlocked his memories. He wanted to have them. The wedding that he'd remembered snatches of. How they'd met. All the moments in between.
Disappointment flickered in her eyes, echoing his own feelings. She smiled flatly.
"And you are Hollis Tremblay. The wagon master of our company."
She said more, but the words didn't register as he was thrown into a memory.
"Hollis, grab the tongs.”
"I remember my pa," he breathed. He hadn't meant to tighten his grip on her hand, but he was clinging to her as the memory washed over him and reality faded.
