Karen Kirst - Reclaiming His Past

Putting her things in the basket, she rose and, crossing to the corner, retrieved an alligator-skin travel bag.

His heart threatened to burst from his chest as she placed it on his lap. He ran his fingertips across the bumpy surface. “Doesn’t look familiar.”

“I almost missed it. It was half-hidden beneath a shrub, some of the contents strewn over the ground.”

His fingers fumbled on the clasp. One by one, he lifted out items that proved ambiguous. Two changes of clothes, sturdy trousers with well-worn hems and solid-color shirts, didn’t spark recognition. Socks. A black handkerchief that looked new. A razor and shaving soap. Basic traveling necessities that could belong to anyone.

Then he saw the Bible lying in the bottom. His gaze shot to Jessica’s. Her expression was unreadable as she stood, hands folded behind her back.

He balanced the heavy tome in his hands. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. There, on the filmy, delicate first page, a name had been scrawled in blocky letters. “I can’t make out the first name,” he murmured. “Parker is the surname.”

“Does it trigger any memories?”

“No.” Defeat marred his tone. He rubbed the coffee-colored stain obscuring much of the first name. “This looks like an uppercase G.”

“Your name could be Gabriel.” Something flickered in her eyes. He sensed she wanted to trust this wasn’t an act.

“Or Gilbert.”

Leaning over, she studied the entry. “I can’t decipher it.”

“Why can’t I remember my own name?” Frustration built inside him. Closing his eyes, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “We can’t know for sure if this is truly mine.”

He would not give in to the panic. Keep it together. She already thinks you’re suspect. Falling to pieces won’t help your case.

She unfolded a shirt and held it out in front of her. “Looks like it would fit you.”

Regulating his breathing, he forced his gaze to hers. “I know you have theories about me. I’d like to hear them.”

Jessica lowered the shirt, her surprise evident. “I doubt that.”

“I can’t say for certain, but I have a feeling I’m a practical kind of guy. No use avoiding the unpleasantness of life. Just delays the inevitable.”

“All right.” Sinking into the chair once more, she finger-combed her mane with long, meditative strokes. “Most obvious theory? You’re an outlaw on the run from authorities or rival criminals.”

“Am I a notorious outlaw or a basic, run-of-the-mill criminal?”

“You’re a man who’s conflicted about your misdeeds.”

“That’s good to know,” he said wryly. “Next theory.”

“You stole another man’s wife.”

He shook his head, such a thing unfathomable. “I stole another man’s horse.”

She tapped her chin. “You swindled someone in a business deal.”

This game of pretend wasn’t helping his dark mood. “Let’s move on to the theories where I’m the good guy, shall we?”

A slim gold ring with a ruby setting flashed on her right hand. “Okay. You were traveling through the area, minding your own business, when you were ambushed by ruffians.”

“Sounds plausible.” And much more palatable than anything else she’d thrown at him. “There’s no money in this bag or on my person. I wouldn’t have traveled without funds.”

She nodded. “You could’ve stored the money in your saddlebags, which they took along with your horse.”

He rested a hand atop the Bible. “Could I be a circuit-riding preacher?”

She looked dubious. “We don’t really have those in these parts. Are there notes on the pages? A preacher would probably have written down thoughts and ideas, underlined important verses.”

While the pages appeared well-worn, and a couple of passages in Psalms had been underlined, he didn’t see any handwriting. “I could’ve recorded my thoughts and sermons in a separate journal.”

“The Bible could mean one of two things—either you treasure it so much you couldn’t bear to travel without it, or you treasure the person who gave it to you. A parent or grandparent would be the most likely candidate.”

“I uttered a prayer earlier. It wasn’t something I actively thought about.”

“That’s good.” Clasping her hands together, she said, “Jane is better at this than I am. She’s more inventive.”

He seized on the rare revelation of personal information. He was done discussing himself. “Does she live nearby?”

“A couple of miles away. She’s married to a wonderful man, Tom Leighton. They’re raising his young niece, Clara, together.”

The wistfulness in her voice wasn’t lost on him. Did she long for a husband and children? What were his own opinions about love and marriage?

“Do your other sisters live in Gatlinburg, as well?”

“All but one. Juliana makes her home in Cades Cove.”

He pressed into the headboard, the wood digging into his shoulder blades. “Cades Cove. That name means something.”

She scooted to the seat’s edge. “What? Did you live there? Could you have family there?”

He had no answers for her. “Is it about two days’ ride from here?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not sure how I know that.” He raked his hands through his hair, tugging a little at the ends. “Could you write to your sister? Ask her to check with her neighbors and the town leaders? Perhaps someone would recognize my description.”

Hands twisting together, she pondered his request. “I’ll write immediately after supper and post it tomorrow.” Standing, she adjusted her blouse and, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder, made to leave.

“Jessica?”

“Yes?” The one word carried a world of strain. Indecision.

“What will it take for you to believe me?”

Her inner struggle was reflected on her face. “Doc believes you. My mother believes you. I value both their opinions.”

“I’m more concerned with what you think.”

“My first instinct is to believe you.”

The triumph swirling inside was tempered by a heavy dose of restraint. “But?”

“My instincts have been wrong before.” The raw grief he glimpsed in her jolted him. “My sister almost died because of me. I can’t afford to be wrong about you.”

She left him with more questions than answers, the desire to reassure her, to make things good for her again completely unexpected and decidedly irrational.

He couldn’t fix his own problems. What made him think he could fix hers?

Chapter Four

“You’re so lucky.” Teeth flashing in the gathering shadows, Will carried a water bucket in each hand. “Nothing exciting ever happens to me.”

Walking beside him through the tranquil woods, Jessica shook her head. Because of his towering height and sturdy frame, the fifteen-year-old had the appearance of a man. And while he was mature in some ways, times like these reminded her he had plenty of growing up yet to do. Despite the absence of his parents—he’d been raised by an infirm grandfather and his older sister, Sophie—he’d turned out fine.

“Count your blessings, Will. Trust me. Excitement isn’t always a positive thing.”

“Easy for you to say. Your life isn’t all about chores and schoolwork.”

Jessica recalled the time when her biggest irritant was having to write a history report or prepare a speech to deliver in front of the other students. Such innocence seemed like a hazy dream.

They emerged from the trees close to where Grant had hours earlier. The outbuildings were mere outlines, the details obscured by encroaching darkness. The great, hulking barn was impossible to ignore. Her memory conjured up smoke belching out the wide entrance, and she could almost taste the acrid stench of burning wood and hay.