An Outlaw in Wonderland (15 page)

Annabeth’s gaze touched on the stitches she’d set in Ethan’s flesh. How strange that
both he and his brother would have similar injuries, with both similar and dissimilar
results. Ethan had lost time, but he hadn’t lost himself. If he had, he wouldn’t know
Annabeth.

She wished that shot had hit her and not Ethan. There was quite a bit of the last
five years she would like to forget.

The sun had begun to lighten the distant horizon, spreading fingers of red, gold,
pink, and orange across the flat Kansas landscape when she shut the text in her lap.
Until recently, she’d spent much of her time in Colorado, where anyone or anything
could be hiding behind the next mountain or tree. Because of that, she appreciated
the ability to see in any direction for miles.

As the shadows waned, Annabeth considered what she had read. It wasn’t much help.
The brain was unexplored territory. No one knew how it worked or had any proven idea
how to fix what didn’t. In several of the books, she’d found nothing under the heading
“brain trauma” beyond a platitude she’d heard a hundred times before.

“Time heals,” she whispered. A greater load of shit had never been shoveled. If she
wasn’t adequate proof of that, Mikey certainly was.

“Beth?”

The pain, the wariness that had been born in his eyes the night he’d learned the truth
about her and continued to live there after she’d returned, was gone. For Ethan it
was 1865, and they’d just been married. The war was over; they’d survived. They were
expecting a child. He knew that she loved him. He still loved her. He seemed to have
forgotten his earlier questions about her clothes, her hair. He never had asked why
her belly was flat.

Annabeth gulped. She had to tell him. “You were hurt, Ethan.”

He smiled the smile she’d fallen in love with back when she thought he was who he
said he was—a brilliant young doctor of the Confederacy. That smile had pulled her
in. And the truth?

The truth had changed little but his affiliation.

“What happened?” he asked.

“You were shot.”

His smile faded. He lifted his hand before she could stop him and rubbed his fingers
along what would probably be a scar. “Who?”

“We don’t know. The marshal—”

“Where’s the sheriff?”

“According to you, he fell out the window.” His gaze went to the hole in the wall;
his frown deepened. “Do you remember any of this?” He shook his head, wincing when
he jarred the wound. “What do you remember?”

“One of the hands at Moriarty’s farm broke his leg. Could have used you there. But
no riding until the baby’s born.”

Annabeth had to clench her fingers to keep from brushing her too-empty belly.

“The house was dark. You were talking to someone. Then—” Ethan tore at his hair and
moaned.

She was reaching for his medicine when he dropped his hands. “Better?” she asked.

“A little.” He blinked away tears the pain had brought to his eyes. “What were you
saying?”

“There are things you don’t remember, Ethan. About me, the baby, the past few years.”

“The past few years?” he repeated. “How could I forget the war?”

“The war’s been over a long time.”

“That’s impossible. We just came to Freedom.”

“We didn’t.”

His gaze lit on her saddlebags near the door. “They’re still packed. We did just come
here.”

He ignored the gaping wardrobe that held only his clothes, a room that was obviously
masculine, not a hint of her anywhere. “I just came back.”

“Where were you?”

Should she tell him? What would be the point?

“I had to go away.”

“You aren’t supposed to ride. The baby.”

“The baby d—”

Ethan cried out and grasped his temples, writhing against the tumbled sheets. Annabeth
reached for him, trying to see why he was suddenly in so much agony. She waited for
blood to pour through his fingers, but it didn’t. Wounds did not open and gush spontaneously.

Ethan’s fingers went white as he pressed them to his head. Annabeth gave up trying
to pry them loose and snatched the blue bottle. She put the edge to his lips. Amazingly,
he stopped thrashing and drank like the baby he couldn’t stop asking about. When she
pulled it away, he reached for it. At least he no longer cradled his head.

“Better?” she repeated.

His eyes opened; the haunted expression was back. “You’re scaring me.”

No more than he was scaring her. “Sleep.” Maybe it would help. Or maybe when he awoke
again, he’d have lost another five years.

Which would eliminate memories of the war, prison, Mikey’s injury—and her. But maybe,
considering everything, that would be for the best.

Ethan’s eyes slid closed; his breathing evened out. Annabeth waited until her heart
stopped thundering and she could think again. Then she picked up one of his books
and paged through until she found the section that reflected Ethan’s recent behavior.

Any wound to the brain is a trauma, those inflicted accidentally or through violence
even more so. The mind is not prepared. It rebels just like the body. Where the injury
may emit a foul-smelling seepage in protest, the mind may block out memories. This
is called amnesia.

In some cases, the patient may, contrary to any evidence of reality, see only what
he wishes to. Do not insist the afflicted believe what he does not or remind him of
things he has forgotten. The patient must be kept calm. Only in this way will the
brain heal, allowing the memories to return on their own.

Annabeth shut the book and hurried downstairs, opening drawers until she found the
scissors. Then she gathered her hair into a tail and sliced it off at the jaw.

She contemplated the handful of bright red locks. She wouldn’t miss them, wasn’t quite
sure why she’d allowed the length to reach to her waist. In her line of work, long
red tresses were a hindrance. Cutting them was overdue. In Freedom, shorter hair would
be one less thing to lie about. When she left, she’d have one less thing to hide.

She couldn’t do anything to disguise a flat belly that should be round beyond continuing
to wear loose clothes. If the pages she’d just read were accurate, Ethan would see
what he wanted to anyway.

Guilt weighed her down, and she climbed the stairs with feet that felt dredged in
mud. So many mistakes, so many bad choices. She couldn’t make another and leave Ethan
like this. She’d have to stay until he remembered everything.

Except . . .

Mikey never had.

•   •   •

Ethan woke as the sun slanted across the foot of his bed. Afternoon. He couldn’t remember
the last time he’d slept this late.

He moved his head, and pain flickered. The hand he lifted shook badly. He was thirsty,
and his skin itched.

On the bedside table sat a blue bottle. He thought he should drink from it; then again,
he thought he should not. But why would it be there if he wasn’t meant to partake?

He managed to wrap his fingers around the glass, managed not to spill it as he drew
the opening to his lips. The taste was familiar, one he remembered and adored. He
drank deeply—until the shakes, the itching, the pain faded. Then he was able to sit
up, set his feet on the floor, cross to the washstand, and peer into the mirror.

The stitches sparkled against his pale skin. Interesting. He hadn’t seen silver suture
wire since just after Bull Run.

No. That wasn’t true. He’d stocked it here. In Free- dom.

He examined the wound. No sign of infection. Certainly the area was red, but that
was to be expected.

A shuffle from behind had him shifting his gaze to meet that of his wife’s in the
mirror. As always, the sight of her much-shorter hair caused guilt to flicker; this
time the guilt was so sharp, his belly roiled.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asked.

Pain shafted through Ethan’s head. She had. He just couldn’t remember what.

“Ethan?”

He grasped the washstand so tightly, his fingers ached. He made himself release the
edge, though he continued to lean upon it. His legs weren’t as steady as he’d like.
“Your stitches are as good as the day I met you.”

Her smile seemed sad, although it might just have been the mirror. There was something
about the reflections in it that bothered him. Her stomach didn’t appear as large
as it should, but as she was wearing his clothes, who could tell?

He’d been hurt; he’d had bad dreams. Everything, right now, seemed fuzzy.

“As I recall,” she said, “that seam was as crooked as this one.”

“I’ve always preferred those who can make stitches in bleeding flesh to those who
make them in cloth.”

“Not lately,” she muttered.

“What?” He turned too fast, nearly fell down.

She hurried to his side. “Why did you get up?”

“I . . .” Despite her tugging in one direction, Ethan turned in the other and gazed
into the mirror again. “I couldn’t remember what happened. I wanted to see.”

Her face swam into view at his shoulder. Not only did she appear sad but worried.
“Do you remember now?”

“Not really. But . . .” His gaze met hers in the glass. “Why do I look so old?”

O
ld?” Annabeth repeated. “You’re—”

She bit her lip to keep the word
thirty
from tumbling out. In his mind, he was still twenty-five.

“A few years older than me,” she said instead.

The five years he was “missing” had been hard on both of them. Until Ethan had mentioned
it, she hadn’t noticed that he’d aged. She’d been too damn glad to see him.

Right now, she could see all of him. As he couldn’t rest properly wearing trousers
and a shirt, she’d removed everything after the marshal left.

However, she’d done so with her gaze averted. It hadn’t seemed right to stare at his
body when he was unconscious. But it had been so much work getting him out of the
clothing, she hadn’t bothered to put anything on him but a sheet. As Ethan didn’t
seem disturbed by his nakedness, she shouldn’t be.

Except she was. And not because of any inappropriate lust, but by the visible proof
of how the years had changed him. He’d always been slim and tall. He would become
busy with his work and forget to eat unless she reminded him. He’d started to fill
out during the time they’d spent together.

Now she could see each of his ribs and the bony spike of his hip beneath his skin.
His knees and feet appeared especially knobby. She was happy the mirror was large
enough to reveal only his face.

The years had taken their toll in the creases around his eyes. Not laugh lines, not
hardly. But squinting into the sun, being whipped by the wind, lack of sleep, worrying
had all left their mark.

Annabeth moved out of the reflection before Ethan noticed her new lines. They weren’t
laugh lines either.

“When was the last time you preened in a mirror, Doctor?” Annabeth tugged again, and
this time he followed, allowing her to tuck him into the bed.

His frown deepened the latest furrows about his mouth. “When I shaved?” He lifted
his palm to his chin, rubbing at several days of stubble. “Not long enough to add
all those years.”

“You were injured. Ill.” She smoothed her palm over the sheets. The same rasping sound
came from the contact of her skin with the material that had come from his palm to
his chin. Running, hiding, spying, lying wreaked havoc on the hands. “That puts lines
all over the place.”

“How long have I been unwell?”

As a day or two would not explain the five years on his face, she hesitated. She was
going to have to break that mirror. After what she’d seen of herself in it, she couldn’t
wait.

“You haven’t eaten since yesterday,” she said. “Sadie brought stew.”

Her words distracted him from his question. “I’m not hungry.”

“A little?” she coaxed. “With me?”

“All right.” His gaze narrowed on her. “You seem thin, Beth.”

Being on the run from the last person she’d betrayed, or on the road to the next,
had left little time for food, not that being who and what she was left her with any
appetite.

“Maybe it’s just those clothes,” he continued. “Why are you wearing them?”

“I’m having some larger dresses made.” The lie tripped off her tongue without thought.
She cleared the tickle from her throat. “I don’t fit in mine anymore.”

He nodded, accepting her tale despite the fact that if she had been with child, she
would have thought to purchase new dresses long before she needed them.

“I’ll fetch the stew,” she said.

He could also use something for the pain that haunted his eyes and tightened his mouth.
Her gaze flicked to the bedside table, but it was empty except for the lamp. “Wasn’t
there . . . ?” She paused. He wouldn’t remember a bottle even if there’d been one.
“Close your eyes for a spell. I’ll be back.”

Annabeth descended to the first floor, reheated the stew, offering some to the guard
at the door—a man she did not know. After five years, there were probably a lot of
them.

He accepted in a hurry, but then paused in his eating. “Mrs. Lewis has been by already,”
he said around a mouthful of meat. “She seemed awful upset not to be able to see the
doc. The marshal said to keep everyone out, but . . . Should I let her in?”

“No!” Annabeth said the word so loudly, the man bobbled his plate. “Sorry.” She took
a breath, searched for a lie. She couldn’t tell a stranger that she didn’t want her
husband’s pregnant mistress upsetting him. “He’s not well enough to receive anyone
yet.”

The guard glanced up the street, his uncertainty plainly visible. “She’s gonna be
back.”

“I’ll pay her a visit directly.”

Now his uncertainty focused on Annabeth. News of her last visit must have been shared
all over town.

“Just keep her out,” Annabeth said. “And everyone else, too.”

She stopped at the medicine cabinet, pocketed another blue bottle, then headed upstairs,
balancing two plates of food. Ethan sat up in bed, rubbing the side of his head.

“Here.” She set the meals on the nightstand and reached into her pocket. “Damn.”

He lowered his arm, the red imprint of his fingertips stark on his too-pale skin.
“What’s the matter?”

Considering the sunlight through the window, his pupils seemed exceedingly large.
Annabeth leaned close, comparing the two. Head injuries could cause one pupil to become
larger than the other. However, his were the same size. Huge. She didn’t like it.

Annabeth straightened. “I forgot a spoon.”

“Never stopped me before,” he muttered, and held out his hand. She placed the bottle
into it.

He took several sips, wiped his nose across his arm, and took several more, then held
it out to her. “I always forget a spoon. Folks in agony don’t mind drinking from the
rim.”

She set the glass container on the table and handed him a plate. “You’re in agony?”

“Not agony. Not anymore. But I do ache everywhere.”

She put her hand on his cheek but, considering the already climbing heat of the late-summer
day, he wasn’t any warmer than he should be. “If you start to shiver . . .” she began.

“I won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m a doctor.”

Doctors were the worst patients. They knew too much, which either made them obsess
over every little symptom, or ignore the symptoms altogether.

Ethan continued to hold the plate but made no move to eat, instead rubbing his thumb
along his belly. The white sheet pooled in his lap, and despite his being thinner
than she liked, the sight of his chest covered in a light dusting of black hair, his
flat stomach with a trail of the same leading down to—

She jerked her gaze to his face, hers flaming. He stared, grimacing, out the window
at the sun, which appeared to have been doused by a rain cloud.

“Does your stomach hurt?”

“A little.”

“Hunger.” Her own cramped, and she picked up her plate. “Eat.”

For the next several minutes, they did just that. She finished every bite; he managed
only a third before he shoved the fork into what was left and shook his head. “I better
stop.”

“Maybe later.” She took the plate. His pupils had shrunk. That should make her feel
better, but for some reason, it didn’t. Now they seemed exceedingly small, which bothered
her as much as when they’d been large.

“Lie down,” she ordered.

He did, barely managing to place his head on the pillow before his eyelids closed.
She remained until his breathing evened out. His dark beard and nearly black hair
only emphasized the paleness of his skin. He was still one of the most beautiful men
she’d ever seen.

“Ethan?” When he didn’t respond, she leaned over and pressed a kiss to the unmarred
side of his brow. His hair brushed her lip; he still smelled the same. Like summer
herbs and fresh laundry on the line.

Straightening, she let her tongue slide over her mouth. He tasted the same, too. Promises
in the dark. Secrets without lies. A life she’d wanted so damn badly, she’d have done
anything to keep it. But she’d never had the chance.

She carried the dirty plates and forks downstairs, taking a few moments to wash and
put them away. Then she straightened some things that didn’t need straightening. The
house was pristine, cleaner than when she’d lived in it. Annabeth had always been
distracted by patients, by Ethan. The least of her concerns had been the house. But,
apparently, that was not the case for whoever had been keeping it. She had a pretty
good idea who that was.

The back door had been locked from the inside, marshal’s orders, so Annabeth marched
to the front. “No one in, no one out,” she told the guard, another man she did not
know.

As he tugged on the brim of his hat and murmured, “Yes’m,” Annabeth assumed her command
echoed Eversleigh’s.

Annabeth hurried to Lewis’s Sewing and Sundry, nodding when folks greeted her but
not stopping to chat, even though many of them did, their gazes widening when she
continued past. She had no time for chatter. She had business with her husband’s—

Annabeth stopped outside the door. Her husband’s what? As all of the labels that ran
through her mind were uncharitable, she settled on the only one that mattered: Cora
Lewis was the mother of Ethan’s child.

Annabeth tightened her lips to keep the sob from breaking free. If she let it out,
she would not stop, and then where would she be? Standing outside the Sewing and Sundry,
weeping until she melted into a puddle of tears and pain.

Which was why she’d left Freedom in the first place. If she’d stayed, she would have
melted, and she didn’t think she would ever have been able to put herself back together
again.

She wasn’t completely healed, but she wasn’t completely broken anymore, either. Not
like Ethan.

Annabeth set her hand on the door. She was here to discuss Ethan’s injury with Mrs.
Lewis. She had to make the woman understand that Ethan needed to be handled with care
until he remembered everything he’d forgotten.

If he remembered.

For just an instant, Annabeth wondered what that would be like. An Ethan who didn’t
remember all that she’d done, all that he had. Who thought their marriage was intact,
that their child was.

However, while that Ethan and that Annabeth might be nice to think about, they wouldn’t
last. Would he eventually demand to know why her belly wasn’t growing? Or would someone
let slip the reason Cora’s was?

Annabeth stepped inside. She just managed to duck before something hit her in the
head. The dish shattered against the wall and rained crockery shards into what was
left of her hair. Crouching, she shuffled to the right. Luckily, she was still wearing
breeches; attempting the maneuver in a dress would have caused her to fall on her
face. Nevertheless, Cora Lewis nearly crowned her with a second crockery plate.

“Stop that!”

Cora threw another. She had incredibly bad aim. Which could have something to do with
the tightness of the sleeves on her sky-blue day dress, or perhaps the restriction
of the bustle. Annabeth was able to dodge the next missile, too, and when Cora paused
to retrieve a fresh stack of plates, she hurried forward and snatched them away. “Have
you lost your mind?”

Cora narrowed her eyes. “Have you?”

“I’m not throwing crockery.”

“He says your name in his sleep. Never mine. Not once.” Cora let out a long breath.
“Why couldn’t you stay dead?”

Annabeth wasn’t sure what to say. She probably should have.

“Did someone hack your hair off with a knife?” Cora eyed Annabeth’s attire, and her
lip curled. “I suppose it doesn’t matter, considering.”

She was right. Annabeth had bigger concerns than the state of her hair and clothes.

“I didn’t come to argue with you.” Annabeth set the stack of dishes on a low table,
well out of Cora’s reach. “Or to discuss my toilet, or to get my head smashed by a
plate.” Although the way Cora threw them, that hadn’t been likely.

“Why did you come?” Cora gasped, setting a dainty, white hand against a perfectly
corseted and laced breast. “Is Ethan—?”

“He’s fine.” Annabeth swallowed an impatient huff—although she wasn’t certain if her
annoyance was for her own lie, or Cora’s dramatics.

“If he’s fine, then why can’t I see him?”

Annabeth was usually good at reading people; she had to be. But she couldn’t quite
read Cora. Was the seamstress pretending to be foolish, childish, and needy when,
in fact, she wasn’t? Or did Annabeth just want her to be a treacherous, manipulative—

“What’s wrong?” Cora must have seen something in Annabeth’s expression that frightened
her. Probably the nearly overwhelming temptation to throttle the woman.

“Stop that,” Annabeth repeated, this time because Cora was breathing too fast and
shallow. “You’ll get the vapors.”

“But—” Pant. Pant. “But—”

Annabeth lost patience. She came around the counter, and before the woman could even
cringe, shoved her into a chair. “Breathe,” she snapped. “Deeply. Slowly.”

Breathing deeply was damn near impossible in a corset, but Cora did her best. Eventually,
her color returned, her breathing evened out, and Annabeth stepped back, though she
remained close enough to rescue the woman if she fainted. Annabeth didn’t want Cora
to land on her face. All she needed was for Mrs. Lewis to walk out of here with a
broken nose or a black eye. Too many people had seen Annabeth walk in.

“Someone shot at Ethan,” Annabeth began.

A sneer marred Cora’s pretty face. “The entire town knows that. What we don’t know
is why.”

“Neither do I.”

“He needs me.” Cora stood. “I’ll nurse him.”

“No.”

The woman’s huge blue eyes widened, then blinked. Her mouth opened; nothing came out.

Annabeth had known women like Cora before, during, and after the war. Their beauty
ensured that they rarely heard the word
no
. Whenever they did, it seemed to only confuse them.

“He doesn’t remember you.”

Cora blinked again; then laughter spilled from her still-open mouth. “Of course he
does.” She set her hands over her stomach. “I’m the mother of his child.”