LITMIR.BIZ

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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, 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 from being 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 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 to you Michael, also known as Mikey. When you asked me regarding 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 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.

       Chapter Three

      Emily looked down at her clothes and grimaced. “What am I going to do?”

      He knew she meant more than her missing clothes. Her loss of memory mattered far more, but he couldn’t do anything about that. However, he could do something about the other.

      “Don’t

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