Chapter 2 #2
Mrs. Whitley gave her a cheery smile. “You’d wonder how such different people could live together in complete harmony, and yet we do.
” She led the way to the end of the hall, where two more doors stood across from each other.
She opened the one on the left. It was a tidy little room with a double bed covered in a crazy patchwork quilt, a dresser, and a table, and on the table was a Bible.
The window, Emily knew, would look out on that leafy tree.
It would be a pleasant place to spend the night.
And then? Hopefully, her memory would have returned, and she could get on with her plans. Whatever they were.
“You can put your things in here.” Mrs. Whitley pressed her fingers to her mouth.
Her eyes widened. “Oh, my dear. I am so sorry. You have no belongings. Now I wonder what use a woman’s and a child’s luggage would be to three robbers.
” Jesse had told his grandmother the details of the robbery.
Mrs. Whitley patted Emily’s arm. “Never mind. Jesse might find some of your things. If not, we’ll soon have you fixed up.
I’d offer you something of mine but I’m afraid it would be too small.
The people of Bella Creek are kind and generous, though, especially the Marshalls.
” As she talked, she opened the fourth door into a room similar to the one she’d shown Emily.
“Mikey can sleep in here. Would you like that, young man?”
Mikey stood in the doorway, studied the room a moment and then turned to face the women. “Mem, mem, mem, mem.”
“What is he saying?” Mrs. Whitley asked.
“I don’t know. Perhaps he’s asking for his mama.” Emily knelt to face Mikey. “Honey, I don’t know what you mean.”
He nodded and stuck his thumb in his mouth. His wide blue eyes studied her.
She got the feeling she’d disappointed him. But she had no idea why. She rose. “We’ll be very comfortable. Thank you.”
Mrs. Whitley nodded. “If you need anything, just let me know.”
Emily knew the woman couldn’t give her what she needed the most—answers about who she was.
“Now, come along, and I’ll show you my favorite room of the house.” They followed her back down the stairs and across the living room to the door from which she had burst not long ago.
Emily followed her into a room full of fabric and a large table on which Mrs. Whitley had been cutting out a garment. An open cupboard held various colored threads and several pincushions. In the corner stood a dress form. Emily circled the room, touching several things. “This feels familiar.”
“Good. Feel free to explore. It might help you remember.”
Emily lifted a big pair of cutting shears, balancing them in one hand and then the other. She had handled a pair like this. She could see herself sewing a seam, feel the pride she took in her tiny, even stitches. But nothing more would come, and she set the scissors aside with a sigh.
“Anything?” Mrs. Whitley asked.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Well, not to worry.” She turned to Mikey. “I think I might have a few toys around. Would you like to help me find them?”
Mikey smiled. “’Kay.”
Emily followed them from the room, pausing at the doorway to look back. The sense of familiarity lingered, but nothing more came.
Mrs. Whitley opened a cupboard that revealed a space under the stairs. “Look at that. A whole box of toys.” She pulled the box toward them. “Mikey, have a look and see if there is anything you’d like to play with.”
The boy knelt and took out a ball, a collection of farm animals, several books, and a little wagon. He soon played happily.
Emily looked around, at a loss as to what she should do. “Were you making something?” She nodded toward the sewing room.
“I am making several dresses for a Mrs. Abernathy. She’s in the family way, and none of her clothes fit. Would you like to see what I’m doing?”
“Yes, please.” Emily moved Mikey and the toys closer to the door where she could watch him. As she straightened, the room tipped sideways. She sank to the floor, clutching her head in her hands.
Mrs. Whitley rushed to her side. “Forgive me. What was I thinking to drag you all over the house? Jesse will be unhappy with me.” She tsked. “Can you make it to the sofa?”
Emily struggled to her feet, clinging to the older woman’s hand. Mrs. Whitley wasn’t a big woman, but she put her arm about Emily’s waist and guided her to the couch with every bit as much strength as Emily had felt in Mrs. Whitley’s grandson.
Emily practically fell to the couch and leaned her head against the back. The room continued to circle and sway.
Mikey followed them and leaned against Emily’s knees.
She wanted to reassure him, but opening her eyes churned her stomach.
“Lie down and rest.” Mrs. Whitley placed a pillow beneath her head and pulled the green afghan over her. “Would a cold cloth to your forehead help?” She rushed away to get such before Emily could answer and placed it on her forehead.
“Thank you.” The coolness soothed her head.
“Just rest. We’ll be quiet. Won’t we, Mikey?”
Emily listened to them slip away to the kitchen. Their voices came from a dark tunnel. Lord Jesus, please make my dizziness go away and bring back my memory.
The canary sang as she lay there. She might have slept if it had been possible to relax, but she lay stiff as a board, fearing the slightest motion. She willed herself to remember her past, but her mind was full of dark tunnels that led nowhere.
Jesse paused at the door to take off his wet slicker and hang it on the nearby hook. It had stopped raining, but not before he’d gotten a good soaking. The downpour had made it impossible for him to track the criminals. He would go back later and examine every inch of the ground.
He shook water from his hat and hung it next to the slicker. He kicked off his wet boots and left them on the porch, and then he stepped into the house. His heart crashed against his ribs at the sight of Emily, motionless on the couch. He hurried forward. Had she...? Was she...?
The blanket over her rose a bit, and he gasped a shot of air.
She wasn’t dead. But she didn’t look very well, either. Although her eyes were closed, tension fanned out from the corners of them.
He slipped closer. “Emily?”
Her eyes flew open, and she winced.
“Are you okay?”
“My head hurts.” She sat up, closing her eyes for a moment, then opening them to study him. “Tell me you found the culprits and have them locked up.”
“The rain made it impossible to track them. However, I found something.” He returned to the door and picked up the damaged and stained satchel. He pulled a stool close and set it there.
“Does this look familiar?” he asked.
“It’s a satchel.”
“Have a closer look at it.”
“Is it mine?” Her voice trembled.
“Look inside.”
She did so and removed a water-damaged Bible and a packet of hairpins. She ran her fingers along the inside. “That’s all? Was there nothing else? My clothes? Something to indicate who I am?” She had a desperate look in her eyes.
He did his best to sound more encouraged than he felt.
“This is all I found.” He’d searched the stagecoach and a wide circle around it, but apart from trampled grass and the imprint of an oddly shaped horseshoe, he’d found nothing.
If he ever saw a hoofprint with that contour, he’d know what its rider had been up to the first week of July.
“I can’t think why they took personal belongings. ”
A sharp object—likely a knife—had damaged the satchel. He guessed the robbers did not want any reminder of God in their possession and had tossed aside the Bible and satchel. Nothing else remained of the stagecoach’s contents or the belongings of its two occupants.
“May I?” She asked permission to open the Bible.
“Yes, of course.” He’d hoped for eagerness and recognition, but she showed neither.
She opened the book and read the name inscribed on the flyleaf. “Emily Smith.” She looked at Jesse. “Is this me?”
“I hoped it was and that it would bring back your memory.” He rubbed his neck. “I didn’t find the men responsible for your accident nor any proof of your identity.” He’d failed and was disappointed with himself.
She slowly turned the pages. “Maybe something in here will tell me who I am.” Many of the pages were stuck together because they had been wet, and she carefully pulled them apart.
Two were thick and refused to separate. “It feels as if there is something between these. But I don’t want to tear the paper.
I can’t bring myself to purposely damage the Bible. ”
He sensed tears and frustration close to the surface and gently took the Bible from her. “Let me try.” Jesse could not get the pages apart. “There’s certainly something there. Maybe steam will work.” He headed for the kitchen.
“I’m coming.” She moved cautiously, swayed a little.
He stopped, caught her arm and guided her into the kitchen where Mikey played with some of his old toys and Gram stirred a pot on the stove.
Gram saw Emily. “Should you be up? You look pale.” She gave Jesse a sorrowful look. “I should have insisted she rest. Instead, I dragged her around the house, showing her every room.”
“I’m fine, though I don’t mind sitting.” Emily sank into the nearest chair.
Jesse showed Gram the Bible and explained his plan to separate the pages.
“It’s worth a try.” Gram pulled the kettle forward to the hottest part of the stove, and they waited for it to boil.
“Okay, here goes.” He steamed the edges of the pages until they softened, and then slowly pulled them apart. “It looks like a letter.” He handed it to Emily.
She stared at the folded paper and drew in her lips.
He sat across the corner from her. “Isn’t it better to know?”
“Maybe.” Fear, hope, and caution threaded through her voice. “Or maybe I’ll regret what I discover.” She laughed, a mirthless sound. “Of course, we have no idea if this is even mine.”
He squeezed her hands. “There’s one way to find out. Open the letter.”
With trembling fingers, she unfolded the page and read it aloud.
Dear Abigail and John.
The bearer of this note is Miss Emily Smith.
I have entrusted her with the special task of bringing you Michael, also known as Mikey.
When you asked me about adoption, I knew he was perfect for you even though he isn’t an infant.
He’s affectionate, easygoing, and a real joy.
Please accept him as your own. It might help him settle if you allowed Miss Emily to stay with you for a few days.
I am looking forward to a letter from you expressing your delight at the child I have chosen for you.
My sincerest regards,
Your Aunt Hilda
She stared at the letter. “So, I’m Emily Smith?”
“It would seem so.”
She lifted her face, her blue eyes darkened with despair. “But who is Emily Smith?”
He didn’t have an answer for her.