The Lawman's Vow. Elizabeth Lane
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moved. Then he took the stick from her, tested it in the sand and turned away to follow Daniel up the cliff.
The trail was slippery from last night’s downpour. It was so narrow that in some spots, Ishmael, who was still getting used to his new name, had to turn sideways to fit his shoulders between the cliff and the trail’s sheer edge. He couldn’t recall having been afraid of heights, but looking over the side was enough to make his stomach lurch.
Well ahead of him now, the boy climbed with the easy confidence of a monkey. A prince, the child had called him. It struck Ishmael as an innocent joke. Right now, the last thing he felt like was a prince. He was damp and filthy, with waterlogged boots, salt-stung skin, a bruised body and a throbbing head that couldn’t remember a damn thing worth knowing. So far, all he’d recognized was a name from a book about a white whale and a one-legged captain. He could remember the entire story, but he couldn’t remember reading it.
Call me Ishmael…
It was the name that had triggered his memory. Maybe, given time, more names would spark more memories until they came together like the pieces of a puzzle, to make his mind whole again.
Meanwhile, it was as if he was wandering blindfolded through a maze with nothing to guide his way.
The sapphire ring could be the key to his identity. But so far it meant nothing to him. He’d been startled, in fact, to see it on his finger. Did it mean he was wealthy? Or that he belonged to an important family? Ishmael grimaced, half-amused at such grandiose ideas. He could just as easily be a thief who’d stolen the damn thing. He’d probably been shipwrecked while running from the law.
From the trail behind him came the light sound of breathing and the swish of calico against bare legs. He checked the urge to turn and look at his pretty rescuer. Dizzy as he was, a backward glance could send him pitching off the trail. The temptation wasn’t worth the risk. But that couldn’t stop him from thinking about her.
Was she wearing anything under that calico skirt? He imagined those legs walking, thigh brushing satiny thigh…
Damnation! He couldn’t let himself get distracted by those thoughts when every step took so much concentration. A fine thing that would be, to survive shipwreck only to tumble down a cliff from fantasies about a woman’s skirts. He willed the image away but allowed her eyes to linger in his memory. Framed by thick mahogany lashes, they were the color of a dawn sky in the moment before the sun’s rays touched the clouds.
Sylvie. The name was as innocent and elusive as she was. He liked the sound of it. He liked her. Memory or no memory, it was clear that he had an eye for the ladies. But he’d be a fool to start anything with this one. She was young, not much more than twenty by his reckoning. And she probably had a daddy with a shotgun waiting to blast any man who laid a hand on her. Even if she didn’t, he would keep his proper distance. Trifling with such a creature would be like crushing a butterfly.
Ishmael was surprised to discover that he had a conscience. It was puzzling, given that he had no idea who he’d been before he opened his eyes on the beach. Did he have manners? Principles? Was he honest? Had he been taught to respect women?
He could be married, he realized. He could have a wife and children waiting for him, back wherever he’d come from. All the more reason to keep his distance from the intriguing Miss Sylvie Cragun.
The boy had reached the top of the trail and vanished above the rim. Ishmael willed himself to keep plodding upward. The dizziness seemed to be getting worse. Cold sweat trickled down his face. His breath came in labored gasps, but he pushed himself to keep moving. He hadn’t come this far to die falling off a blasted cliff. Besides, there was something else driving him forward, something urgent, he sensed, that had to be done. If only he could remember what it was.
Questions clamored in his head, beating like black wings. So many questions, all demanding answers.
“Tell me where I am.” He raised his voice to be heard above the rushing waves below. “Does this place have a name?”
“The only name we call it is home,” Sylvie replied. “It’s not any kind of town, just a cabin in the forest. Keep moving, and you’ll see it in a minute.”
“No, I mean where is it? Where are we?”
“You really don’t know?”
“Would I be asking if I did?” His foot slipped on a clump of moss. He jabbed the stick into the trail, legs shaking as he righted himself.
The next time she spoke she was closer, less than a pace behind him. “You’re two days’ wagon ride north of San Francisco. Since the boat we found with you is a small one, I’d guess that’s where you came from. Does that sound right?”
“No more or less than anything else does.”
“You don’t remember San Francisco?”
He raked his memory, using the name as a trigger. San Francisco. Fog, rain and mud. The cry of a fish hawker. The smells of tar, salt and rotting garbage. He groped for more, but the impressions were dimmed, like something from his boyhood. He remembered nothing that made him think he’d been there recently. He shook his head. “It’ll come. Maybe after I’ve rested. What…what date is it?”
“It’s Tuesday, the twenty-fourth of March. Living here, it’s easy to lose track, but I mark off each day on a calendar.”
“What year?”
He heard the sharp intake of her breath. “It’s 1858. You don’t even remember what year it is?”
“I don’t remember anything.”
“Except the name of a character in a book.”
Ishmael had no answer for that. With all that remained of his strength, he dragged himself over the top of the cliff. Breathing like a winded horse, he leaned on his makeshift walking stick and filled his eyes with what he saw.
Close at hand, anchored near the cliff’s edge, was a complex system of pulleys and windlasses attached to what looked like a harness for a horse or mule. Best guess, it was rigged to haul heavy loads up from the beach—most likely wreckage that had washed into the cove. In the near distance a low buck fence surrounded a cabin that was unlike anything his eyes had ever seen—at least, so far as he could remember.
The roof and sides were all of a piece, fashioned of weathered oaken planks that were shaped and sealed to watertight smoothness. Seconds passed before Ishmael realized he was looking at the overturned hull of a schooner, mounted on a low foundation of logs to make a sturdy home. A nearby windmill, for pumping well water, turned in the ocean breeze.
“My father built all this.” Sylvie had come up the path to stand beside him. “He cut a wrecked ship into sections and used pulleys like these to haul them into place. We’ve lived here for almost eight years.”
“That’s quite a piece of engineering.” He willed himself to stand straight and to speak in a coherent way.
“My father is a clever man, and a hard worker. He takes good care of us.”
“And your mother?”
“My mother died before we came here. Daniel’s mother died when he was born.”
“I’d like to meet your father. Is he here?”
Her eyes glanced away. Her fingers tightened around the driftwood club she’d carried up from the beach. “Not right now,” she said, “but we’re expecting him home at any time. He’s probably just coming up the road.”
She didn’t trust him. Even through the haze of his swimming senses, Ishmael could tell that much. But how could he blame her? She and the boy were alone here, and he was a stranger.
Surely she had nothing to fear from him. Only a monster would harm a woman and child. And he wasn’t a monster. At least he didn’t feel like one. But how could be sure, when he had no idea what sort of man he was? He could be a thief, a murderer,