Page 43 of A Rugged Beauty
"I'm sure things'll be easier after a good night's rest," August offered.
Hollis looked down at the things in his hands. He felt bone tired—more so than when he'd walked all day and slept on the bare ground. Everyone wanted something from him.
Two families had asked him to mediate a dispute about whether or not the faulty piece of canvas one family had loaned the other could be blamed for the leak in their wagon.
His captains had wanted to discuss the upcoming route for what seemed like hours. One of the men—Hollis couldn't remember his name now—had asked Hollis outright why hehadn't pulled out his logbook. Their arguing and debating had stirred up something in Hollis, something just out of reach.
The one silver lining was that one of the other search parties had found his horse. He'd gone out to greet the animal and recognized the gelding straightaway. His mount had been half-wild, spirits high and still wearing his saddle, with many of Hollis's supplies intact and his rifle still in the scabbard. Hollis had seen to his care, those few minutes spent in familiar tasks his only respite, until now.
"Where's Spar—Abigail?" He wasn't sure he would get used to calling her by her Christian name, not when Sparrow had become so familiar in his mind. "In our tent?"
A look crossed August's features, one that Hollis couldn’t read. "She's bedded down with Felicity—my wife—and young Ben. Probably already asleep."
A visceral need inside him made him say, "I need to see her. Make sure she's all right."
August stayed him with a hand at his chest when Hollis would've pushed past the man. "I'm... not sure she wants that."
Hollis shook his head, not comprehending the other man's words.
"Hollis, sir." August was two inches shorter, but Hollis had to give it to him, he didn't back down.
"I've a right to check on my wife."
August was married. Surely he understood that.
Some shadow crossed the man’s expression in the last of the light.
"What?" Hollis demanded.
"She's not your wife."
The words didn't register. Not until August followed them with, "You and Abigail aren't married."
Of course we are. The argument pressed against his breastbone, but didn’t reach his mouth.
Was this why Abigail hadn't come to him today?
He didn't believe it.
"Why don't you go wash up?" August suggested firmly. “Making a ruckus this time of night isn’t a good idea. I’ll come find you by the creek and let you know how she is."
Hollis wanted to argue, but he became aware of others passing nearby, men on watch. Listening ears.
He trudged out into the darkness, finding his way to the water's edge by sound. It took a minute to find a place where the water was calm enough that he could scoop some into his hands.
He shucked his mud-encrusted shirt. Set aside the razor. It was too dark tonight to shave. He'd save that for the morning.
Abigail isn't your wife.
His heart was pounding against his sternum, almost like fighting the man who'd attacked him out there in the wild.
He'd been sure. Felt the certainty. But she’d been quiet since her memories had returned. Had she known? And kept it from him? What about the memories of his bride?—?
He had his hands cupped around a bit of water when the first of the memories swarmed him, overtaking his vision with scenes from the past. He lost his grip on the water and his hands splashed into the edge of the water, then gripped the ground at his knees, gaining purchase on one solid thing as his mind swam.
His pa and ma, looking proud from the back of the crowd as he'd recited words in a spelling bee. He must’ve been around ten.
Running through the night, belly empty, when he was even smaller. They’d left behind a life of slavery in the south. A wash of memories of Hollis’s pa, the shadows in his eyes that time and distance had never truly erased.
