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REMEMBER MY LOVE, by Elise Dee Beraru
Remember My Love
a Historical Romance
by Elise Dee Beraru
Hard Shell Word Factory
ISBN 1-58200-099-9
publication date, June 1999
| 4 Stars: Romantic Times Magazine |
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Remember My Love
(c)1999 Elise Dee Beraru
Chapter 1
Sunlight peeking in from a crack in the drapes assaulted Blair Carroll's senses like a knife to his flesh. His head splitting like he had been struck with an ax, he slowly opened his eyes and tried to focus on his surroundings.
He was in his bedroom in San Francisco. He recognized the dark wood paneling, the dark blue wallpaper and curtains, the heavy oak furnishings. A fire blazed in the fireplace opposite him. How he got there he had no idea.
He glanced down. He was covered nearly to his shoulders with a fine percale sheet and silk counterpane of the same dark blue as the walls and drapes. His long arms at his sides were encased in the sleeves of a nightshirt on top of the coverlet. For a brief moment, it didn't seem right.
The blanket should be more colorful, not so smooth and dark. But that's ridiculous; I've had this same bedding for years.
At the bottom of the bed, a pair of stocking feet rested, crossed at the ankles. Blair followed their trail up to reveal the form of his brother, who sat in a chair beside him, dozing, an open book in his lap. Stephen was wearing his trousers and shirt, with his suit vest unbuttoned. A lock of his raven hair fell forward over his forehead. A couple of days' growth marred his usually clean-shaven face, yet he still managed to look boyish in slumber.
A sharp pain in his temple jolted Blair and instinctively he raised his palms to his forehead to find a padded bandage wrapped around his head. The pain subsided and Blair lowered his hands, seeing them in focus for the first time.
"My God!" he cried in anguish and anger, jarring Stephen awake so quickly that his book slid off his lap as he brought himself upright. So strained was Blair's cry that Stephen forgot to be glad that his brother was conscious for the first time in days.
"Blair, what's the matter?" Stephen blurted out.
"Look at my hands. What happened to my hands?"
Blair stared at his hands like they belonged to someone else. His right little finger was completely missing, both hands were tanned brown, rough calluses coated the palms and the pads of his remaining fingers, tiny scars from small nicks and cuts were evident. His fingernails were roughly pared and stained as were his ragged cuticles. Small, black dye-filled needle pricks covered the tips of his left index and middle finger. On his left ring finger was a horseshoe nail forged into a ring.
"What's today?"
"Saturday."
"No, I mean the date."
"December sixteenth. You've been unconscious for nearly four days."
"I arrived home December twelfth?"
"Um-hmm."
Blair frowned and held out his hands again. "How could I have done this much damage to my hands in a month?"
Stephen started. "A month? What do you mean a month?"
Blair looked at his brother. "I left you in Milwaukee on November eighth. I was trying to ride to some goddamned depot in Wyoming because the track was out. I was held up--a couple of seedy bastards. They cold-cocked me. I'm sure it was November tenth or eleventh. Somehow it took me a month to get home. You just said I got home December twelfth. Unless I crawled home from Wyoming on my hands and knees I couldn't have done this much damage to my hands in one month."
Stephen stared at his brother's face. The older man's gray eyes were dark with confusion and anger. The younger one's similar eyes were filled with dismay. He quietly asked, "Blair, what date do you think it is?"
"You just told me, December sixteenth."
"No, I mean the year?"
"Are you crazy?" Blair spit out angrily, "December sixteenth, 1873."
"Eighteen seventy-five," came the clear, quiet response. "You've been missing and presumed dead for over two years."
"It's not possible."
Stephen reached beside him to the floor where he had dropped the morning paper after reading it while sitting at the bedside. He handed it to Blair, saying, "Today's Chronicle."
Blair looked. There was no doubt. 1875 was clearly printed on the masthead. If he suspected a gag, the look on Stephen's face quickly relieved him of that notion.
"Blair, where have you been for the last two years?"
Blair leaned back on the pillows and closed his eyes. "I have no idea..." He squeezed his eyes tighter shut and put his palms to his aching head. "God damn it, I can't remember."
For a minute he looked at his right hand. Whoever had stitched him up had done a really careful job.
"You always had trouble getting your ring off, didn't you?"
"Yeah," Blair affirmed.
"Well, when I put you to bed, I noticed that the scar on your hand and the one on your head had been stitched up."
"Yeah, I just noticed that myself...I'll bet those bastards couldn't get the damned ring off and cut off my finger to get it."
"And probably left you for dead. Only someone found you and stitched up the two wounds. Can you remember who found you?"
"Not at all. I haven't any clue."
"You had a few dollars, mostly in coin, and a pocketknife." He handed his brother the pocketknife. It had a horn case, well worn, but no distinguishing marks or initials. "Nothing else except the ring you're wearing now."
"This isn't a ring. It looks like a nail."
"Well, I had it off for a moment and your skin is white and smooth under it, so you've been wearing it like a ring for quite some time, I'd guess. What do you think it means?"
Blair shrugged. "I've never worn a ring on this hand. If a woman was wearing a ring on this finger I'd say she was married. Shit, Stephen, you don't think I managed to get myself married."
Stephen gestured helplessly. "Well, it's certainly within the realm of possibility."
"It figures some bitch would get her claws on me while I was out of my mind..."
"But why a horseshoe nail?"
"Wherever I was, there couldn't have been much money. I'll wager whoever she was married me hoping her scrimping days were over."
"You never sent for any money. If you knew you were Blair Carroll, or she knew you were, one of you would have wired or written, don't you think? Do you think you knew who you were?"
"I don't know. The time is gone as if it never happened. I feel like Rip Van Winkle. Stephen, if it's true--if I'm married--can I get out of it?"
"I'm not sure. Let me check on it and let you know. In the meantime, I suggest you stay out of any romantic entanglement until we resolve the problem."
"Believe me, the last thing I want now is a romantic entanglement.
Stephen turned to leave, then turned back, "One more thing I forgot."
"And that is?"
"Cherry Leval died three weeks ago. Your son should be arriving in San Francisco in about a month. His name is Joshua, in case you care."
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| Elise Dee Beraru |
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About the Author: |
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