Since this is an ebook or efile and pages are irrelevant (for example, if you want to mark a certain section like a bookmark, just type in an odd sign like % and Ctl+F search for it), an easy way to search for the 3 stories HERE easily is to press CTL + F and search for $ (yes, the dollar sign i've added to the beginning of each story)  until you reach the story you want.

EDITORIAL:

Let's keep it short and sweet!

Any word with an m is suspect and can be a th such as the word "mat", "me", "mey", "mis", "mink" , “mough” may be a mistake and actually be "that", "the", "they", "this", "think", “though”

D is inaccurately being read instead of TL.  Any word with d like gendy, silendy, flady, gende, casde, setde, batde etc. should be gently, silently, flatly, gentle, castle, settle, battle, etc.

And the ususal "di" is being read instead of th such as "anodier" for "another", "fadier" for "father", "diere" for “there", “die” for “the”, “dis” for “this”, etc.

And I’m seeing “fi” for “h” so words like “tfiat” should be “that”, “tfiere” should be “there”, etc.
If you see a weird word with k or U, try replacing  with "li"

Zebra, Kensington Publishing
Coyright 1999

Beyond the Call 			
by Sandra Davidson					$
CHAPTER ONE			
Amanda Davis brushed away the last layer of earth covering the human bones. She had already found the answer to one of the mysteries surrounding the grave's occupant when she discovered two brass buttons. They identified the ancient remains as that of a Confederate officer, but there were still so many questions to be answered. When she had joined her sister on the archeological dig, she never dreamed it could be so exciting.
It certainly hadn't been exciting in the beginning. Far from it. She had started off like all the other volunteers on the Shiloh Historical Battlefield dig doing the back-breaking grunge work of removing the top layer of soil with shovels, then sifting through every inch of dirt that had been removed.
It was hard work, but it had been exactly what she needed to help cope with her husband's death. She had completely absorbed herself in learning all she could until Pat trusted her enough to do the finer, painstaking work of carving her way, layer by layer, down through the earth in a precise and careful way.
Poking the trowel between the bones, she hit something solid and reached down to grasp a metal cylinder covered with black earth. Brushing it off with her fingers, she discovered a minié ball, the most common kind of ammunition used during the Civil War.
A low rumbling of thunder rolled across the sky, and Amanda's skin prickled with goose bumps, imagining the dead soldier turning over in his grave. Sorry, old fella, I'm just doing my job.
She certainly hadn't set out to disturb ancient bones; it had been strictly by accident that she found them buried in the spot where she was digging. But having done so, she would follow policy: treat the bones with dignity and respect, continue digging, then relocate them to a local cemetery.
"Amanda, it's going to rain. Better call it a day. Help me cover the hole with a tarp."
Startled by her sister's voice, Amanda jumped up, popping the minié ball into her shirt pocket to free her hands. Taking the offered tarp from Patricia, she covered the excavation. She was about to tell her sister about her find when the first drops of rain fell.
They ran for the car and in a moment were driving down the narrow, tree-lined dirt lane to the main road. Luckily, the bed and breakfast inn where they were staying was only five or six miles from the dig. They made it there just as the heavens opened up in a torrent of rain.
By the time they ran from the parking lot to the inn, they were soaked. Mrs. Pell, the innkeeper, took one look at them and said, "I'll make a pot of nice hot tea for you girls."
"Thank you, Mrs. Pell, that would be nice. We'll just change into some dry clothes and join you," Amanda replied, catching her breath.
"Nothing of the kind. I'll bring it up to your sitting room. After a hard day at work, I'm sure you'll be more comfortable there."
Amanda smiled her approval. "Thanks, that sounds good to me."
Entering her room, Amanda stripped off her wet clothes and slipped into a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. She donned a pair of socks, then walked into the little alcove that separated her room from her sister's. Patricia was pouring tea into delicate bone china cups. "Earl Grey, your favorite, Amanda."
Sitting down in an overstuffed chair, Amanda answered, "Mrs. Pell sure knows how to spoil the Davis girls. I'm so glad you found this place for the team to stay in."
"It wasn't a hard decision to make after I discovered that this house was actually standing during the Civil War. Returning here every day kind of brings it all home, doesn't it?"
"Mmn, I hate the thought of leaving. How much longer till we're done?"
"You mean how much longer until our funding runs out? Another month, I'd say. Then you can go back to being a world-class surgeon."
"You know how I feel about that. Let's drop the subject, please."
"I just don't understand how you can give up doing what you were born to do. Think of all the lives you could be saving."
"Don't try to lay a guilt trip on me, Pat. It won't work. You more than anyone should understand why I can't be a doctor anymore."
"And why you use your maiden name again instead of John's last name?" Pat crumpled up her linen napkin and threw it down on the tray. "I hate this. I really hate this. When are you going to get over your guilt about John's death? He couldn't have lived with himself if he hadn't tried to save you."
"And now I can't live with myself knowing that he sacrificed himself for a woman who didn't even love him. Oh, I could have understood his heroism if I had been pregnant with his child. It would have been an instinctive act then, to protect his unborn child. But we know that wasn't possible, don't we? Not only was he stuck with a woman who didn't love him, but a barren one at that. I wonder if he would ever have married me if he'd known."
"Is that what's at the heart of this? The fact that you're unworthy of love because you could never give your husband children."
"No! I had just asked the man for a divorce. Can't you understand how hard that is to live with? I keep asking myself if he sacrificed himself because he had nothing left to live for."
"Don't deny him his hero status, Amanda. He gave up his life for you. I happen to think that's pretty wonderful. Accept what happened and go on. Make his death count for something."
"That's just it. John was a dedicated surgeon, doing so much good in the world until that bastard came into the emergency room, ranting and raving about greedy doctors. I kept thinking, what is his problem? Physicians do good. Why would anyone want to kill them?"
"Amanda, doctors are no more immune to violence than the rest of us. They aren't God, for heaven's sake. If innocent children can get killed by stray bullets, if presidents and prime ministers can get shot, then why should doctors be any different?"
Putting her hands over her ears, Amanda shouted, "Stop it. I don't want to hear any more."
Seeing how upset her sister was, Pat said softly, "All right. I give up. You know I enjoy having you help me on the dig. It's just that I've been on my own guilt trip, thinking I was keeping you from your work."
"Let's not argue anymore, Pat; you're the only family I've got."
Relieved, Pat murmured, "Amen to that. We spent so many years apart, this time together is a real treat for me."
"For me, too. Let's make a pact never to be separated again. We’ll be like the Three Musketeers, all for one and one for all."
"Three Musketeers? And just who is going to be the third member of this alliance?"
"I don't know; maybe we can get a dog. A nice big Doberman pinscher to keep poachers away from the dig." Amanda giggled, picturing a Doberman dressed in cape and hat like a musketeer.
"Pretty pathetic, aren't we? Between the two of us we can't conjure up one more person to include in our pact."
"That's because we're never in a situation where we can meet people, at least not live people." Amanda remembered the minié ball in her pocket then. She started to mention it to Pat, but quickly changed her mind. It was forbidden to take any artifacts from an archeological dig site, and this wasn't the time to erode Pat's confidence in her. She would just take it back in the morning, and no one would be the wiser.
Hugging her sister, she said, "I think I'll hit the sack early tonight. Sitting on that damp ground takes its toll after a while."
Amanda decided a hot shower was in order and began undressing in the bathroom. She stuffed her clothing in the hamper, then picked up the wet clothing she had worn at the dig. Bunching them up, she started to put them in with the rest of her dirty clothes when a faint metallic clink sounded on the tile floor. What the.... Searching for the source of the noise, she saw the minié ball had rolled out of her pocket.
She leaned over and picked it up. "You're going on my nightstand so I don't forget you in the morning," she muttered, just as the lights flickered and then went completely out. Damn it. Every time it rained, the lights in this old house went out. It was annoying, but she and Pat put up with it because of the wonderful ambiance of the place.
Feeling her way through the living room, minié ball in hand, she made her way toward the bed. A loud crack of thunder sounded, and almost simultaneously the room was lit by a lightning flash. In the glare of the bright light Amanda saw the figure of a man standing in her room.
Afraid even to breathe, she stood there, not knowing what to do. The lights flickered again, then came back on, and she saw the room was empty. Was she hallucinating? No, she had seen someone. But where could he have gone? There was no place to hide except the ancient armoire that stood against the wall.
Feeling extremely vulnerable in her nakedness, she slipped into her robe, gathered her courage and made her way over to the armoire. There was no way she could sleep until she was sure she was alone. She slowly opened the door, expecting at any moment someone to jump out at her.
She grew braver when nothing happened, and decided her mind was playing tricks on her. But just to make sure, she searched carefully, pushing aside each hanger individually to peer in the back, and was relieved to find there was no one there. She closed the doors and was about to turn when a prickling sensation crawled up her spine and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end.
Her heart beat wildly as the faint fragrance of flowers permeated the air. Someone was standing behind her.
Afraid to look, but even more afraid not to, she slowly turned around. The vaporous form of a man dressed in a Confederate uniform wavered before her, like heat rising from a road on a hot day.
More in shock than fear, she stood staring at the ghostly form, unbelieving of what she saw. When it finally registered on her brain that she was in the presence of a ghost, she took a step backward, in the vain hope of putting distance between her and the strange apparition.
Bumping into the armoire, she gave out a little cry and quickly put her hand in front of her as if to push the ghost away. She withdrew it just as quickly, afraid of coming in physical contact with the spooky entity.
The specter stood there unmoving, and though she could see him perfectly clearly, he had no substance, no color at all, except . . . for a hint of green in his eyes.
Dear God, she was actually looking at a real live ghost. A nervous giggle spilled from her mouth at her choice of words. He wasn't really alive, but he was most definitely a ghost.
But, but, ghosts couldn't actually hurt you, could they? No, she decided, but they could sure scare you to death. Her heart was racing so fast she feared it would leave her chest, but despite that, despite her fears and the shock of seeing a ghost with her own eyes, something kept her from running away. Something she could see in his eyes. Something that made her feel compassion. Agony. That's what it was. As if ... as if he were in pain, but that wasn't possible. Ghosts couldn't feel anything, could they? 
The ghost suddenly raised his arm, as if to reach for her, and her compassion quickly fled. Sidestepping quickly, she moved out of his range before flying from the room, crying her sister's name.
Pat flung open her door. "What is it? You look as if you've just seen a ghost."
"I have. Come back to my room with me. You won't believe this. No one will believe this. But it's true. It's really true."
Grabbing her sister's hand, she started pulling her toward her room. "You've got to see this. I swear it's a ghost. A real live ghost. Don't look at me that way. It's true. He's in my room, and, and, he's a Rebel soldier, an officer I think."
Remembering the bones at the dig had been those of a Confederate officer, Amanda wondered if they belonged to the ghost. Could it be a coincidence that he appeared right after she brought home the minié ball? In a sudden wave of understanding, she knew it was that very minié ball that had killed her ghostly Rebel soldier.
Patricia listened to Amanda babbling on about a minié ball and a Rebel soldier, and let herself be dragged back to Amanda's room, curious as to what could have set her off like that.
Amanda entered her room bravely, her fear forgotten in the excitement of the moment. But as soon as she was inside, she knew he was gone. She sensed the emptiness, the loneliness of her surroundings, even before she began her search. "He was here. I swear it."
Patricia wondered if Amanda was having a delayed reaction to her husband's death. She had heard about people suddenly breaking down, years after the death of their loved one. "Honey, I think dusting off moldy bones all day has finally got to you. I think you should take the day off tomorrow and just relax and pamper yourself."
"But I saw him. I really did. For Pete's sake, Pat. You know I'm not given to flights of fancy. And, and, you know I've always thought that ghosts were attracted to me."
"Amanda, it's one thing to see something out of the corner of your eye for a fleeting second and think it's a spirit, and quite another to be in a staring contest with the ghost of a Confederate soldier."
"I did see him, damn it. And he must have seen me, too, because he reached out to touch me."
"Have it your way. If you want to believe you saw a ghost, fine. But it's getting late and we have to get up early. We'll talk about it over breakfast, okay?"
"You don't think I'll sleep a wink, do you? I'm too excited. What if he comes back?"
"You can spend the night in my room, then. There's plenty of room in the four-poster."
Almost reluctant to leave, Amanda looked around one more time, peering into the darkened corners, but there was no sign of the ghost. Walking to her bed to grab her bathrobe, her eyes opened wide. Delicate, pink flower petals were scattered on the carpet. They hadn't been there before the ghost appeared; she was sure of it. Kneeling, she gently scooped them up in her hand, then held them under her nose to breathe in their wonderful aroma.
"Where on earth did they come from?" Patricia said, seeing the flower petals in Amanda's hand.
In a dreamlike state, Amanda answered, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
Pat gave Amanda a puzzled look, then shrugged. "Well, if you're going to sleep with me, let's go or we'll never get up in the morning."
It was Pat's turn to take Amanda's hand and lead her from the room. "We're gojng to have to seriously think of ways to meet new people. Live people, that is."
CHAPTER TWO
Sometime in the middle of the night, Amanda finally drifted off to sleep and dreamt of a Confederate officer standing in the middle of a peach orchard, the trees vibrant with pink blossoms against a deep blue sky.
He beckoned her to join him, but try as she might, she could make no progress. Some powerful force was holding her back. She longed to touch him, but could do nothing more than stare at his handsome form in frustration. Hungrily, her gaze drank him in, traveling over his masculine figure until, looking down at his leg, she saw blood gushing from a wound and awoke with a start.
Lying in the dark, she listened to her sister's steady breathing, and it calmed her. She wasn't alone. The second musketeer was there with her. But who would be their third? If she had her choice, it would be her handsome Confederate ghost.
She hadn't appreciated how good-looking he had been while she was face-to-face with him in ghostly form. She had been too scared. But now, after dreaming of him as he must have appeared in life, his virile good looks came back to haunt her.
It figured. The first time she actually found someone she could really be interested in, he turned out to be a ghost. Pat was right; she needed to get a life.
On her way to the dig the next morning, she couldn't keep her mind off the ghost. Maybe her sister was right. Maybe she had just imagined she saw him. Maybe he was so handsome because she had invented him from whole cloth.
Well, if she was going to invent a face, she was glad she had invented his. Even in his gray, misty form she could see that he had the kind of features that appealed to her: strong jaw, perfect nose, and compelling eyes. Green. The only color about him.
It was almost as if the color indicated that he wasn't completely a ghost. As if part of him was still alive. His eyes? His soul? The eyes were the mirror of the soul, weren't they?
But she was fooling herself if she thought she had just imagined him. The peach blossom petals were proof of that. She was sure they hadn't been on the floor when she came back from the dig. She would certainly have noticed them lying in the middle of her floor.
Arriving at the site, she made her way over to the tarp-covered hole, and immediately remembered she had left the minié ball on the nightstand. Darn it all, how could she forget it again? Had she unconsciously left it there because she believed it to be the catalyst for bringing the ghost to her?
The ground was still wet from the storm last night, so she spread her windbreaker down to sit on. Taking the trowel in one hand, the dustpan in the other, she set about working the soil.
A shiver went through her at the thought that the bones could actually be those of the Confederate soldier who had haunted her last night. Maybe he didn't like her messing around with his remains. Or, maybe he did. Maybe he was glad to be exposed to the sun and the rain again. With a thrill of excitement, she realized she wanted to see him again. Of course, it was easy to be brave in broad daylight, but how would she react if he actually did show up?
Turning off her thoughts, she concentrated on her work and two hours later had a goodly portion of the bones exposed. Her metal trowel made a dull, clinking sound as it struck something solid, and curious, Amanda felt around in the mottled earth until she found it. With her heart in her throat, she grasped what felt like a metallic chain. She gently pulled it, watching as the encrusted earth surrounding it snaked along the length of it until it was wrenched free of the muddy ground.
Lifting the chain out, she saw that it was attached to something.
A heart-shaped locket!
Captivated by her find, she wiped it clean with the hem of her shirt. No doubt about it. It was indeed a locket. Trying the catch, it sprung open easily, the hinge almost rotted away. One glimpse inside, and a thrill coursed through her. It contained a photograph. It was in pretty bad shape, speckled liberally with mildew, but she could still make out that it was a.. . child. A little girl. Most likely the soldier's daughter.
Staring at the tiny trinket brought the poignancy of the war home to her as nothing else had, and she thought of the myriad stories that could be told about each soldier who had died here and the loved ones they left behind.
"What's that you've got?" Pat said over her shoulder, startling her.
"It's a locket with a photo inside." Amanda handed the locket to Patricia.
"So it is. What a great find. Jim, come over here and bring the camera. I want this documented. Amanda, hold the locket and point to the spot where it was found."
Amanda did as she was told, and when the picture was taken, she walked out of range so Jim could photograph the whole excavation. As she watched, excitement mounted inside her. The soldier seemed so real to her that she knew she wouldn't be satisfied until she learned more about him. After all, he had appeared to her, and not anyone else.
Remembering her sister's offer to take the day off, Amanda decided to do just that. She could go to the historical research library in town and research the men whom died at Shiloh. The battle was pretty well documented. Maybe she could actually put a name to her ghost.
Taking her sister aside, she said, "I think I will take the rest of the day off, if you don't mind. I've got some things I'd like to do. Do you think you could ride back to the inn with one of the others so I can use the car?"
"Sure. That's great I'm glad you're taking some time for yourself. It's a healthy sign."
Amanda wondered just how healthy Pat would think she was if she knew of her obsession with a dead man. But then, she wasn't really obsessed, just curious, that's all. What harm could there be in researching him? If she actually found out who he was, it would be valuable to the dig, wouldn't it?
Feeling justified that she had come up with a good reason for her peculiar behavior, she drove to the historical library and began looking up documents and books on the battle. The library was another original building from the Civil War era, with high ceilings and dark mahogany paneled walls that gave it almost a gloomy ambiance. The perfect setting, she thought, for researching a ghost.
An hour later, her smugness and enthusiasm was gone, replaced by a sense of hopelessness. Over ten thousand Confederate soldiers lost their lives in the two-day battle, not to mention over thirteen thousand Yankees. It was just too impossible a task to find her unidentified ghost among them. Her only clues were that he was a Confederate officer and that he had probably been wounded in the leg. She had determined that from the location of the minié ball she had found. She shuddered to think of how many men must have lost a leg that day. But, in fact, her soldier had not. He'd still had both legs intact when he was buried. Not that it was of any help to her, knowing that.
A wound in the leg most likely wouldn't have been fatal unless gangrene had set in, but then it would have taken days for him to die. Her soldier had to have died right away; otherwise he wouldn't have been so hastily buried. Also, if he had lived for days, he would have been transferred to a hospital. That left only one other possibility.  The minié ball must have shattered an artery in his leg, and he bled to death right on the spot.
Remembering her dream about the blood spurting from the Confederate soldier's leg, she felt overwhelmed. What was happening to her? Was she experiencing some kind of psychic phenomenon?
Drained and weary from her fruidess search, she decided it was time to leave. She would come back another day, although it seemed such a waste of time. Even if she did find out his identity, then what? He was way past needing a surgeon, and she had no need of a dead man. She already had one of those in her life.
That did it. It was time to go. This was getting her nowhere.
With a deep sigh of defeat, she started for the door. And then, then ... the oddest sensation crept over her, and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end, just as it had when she sensed the ghost's presence last night. The only thing missing was the scent of peach blossoms.
Something was pulling her gaze upward, and coming to a halt, she slowly tilted her head to look up at the large, ornately framed portrait over the entranceway. It was a painting of a man in Confederate uniform. Oh, but not just any man. The face that stared back at her with green eyes that pierced her very soul... was the same virile face that had haunted her the night before.
CHAPTER THREE
The face that stared back at her was her Confederate ghost's. But instead of the pale, gray translucent image of the night before, the artist had captured him on canvas in breathtaking color, looking so incredibly handsome she couldn't take her eyes off him. A deep longing came over her as she thought about what it would be like to have him in her life.
Drawing closer, her gaze still locked onto the masculine face, she was suddenly jolted by the impact of a body. "Oh! Sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going."
The jostled librarian straightened her glasses. "That's all right. The captain's portrait had the same effect on me, first time I saw it. I almost tripped over a desk. Quite a looker, isn't he?"
"The captain?  You mean you know who he is?"
"Why, certainly. That's the Kenneth Campbell. The heroic Confederate officer the historical library was named after."
Amanda could barely contain her excitement. "Oh, my. I believe I've just found the bones of your Captain Campbell."
The librarian looked at her in horror.
"What I mean is, I'm with the archeological dig at the battlefield, and I guess I'm responsible for discovering his bones. Not that we were looking for them. Believe me, we weren't. It's just that sometimes in the course of unearthing artifacts, we find human remains."
"No need to apologize. I didn't think you were a grave robber. In fact, if what you're saying is true, the news is very welcome. We've often speculated about what happened to the captain. The staff will be so pleased to hear that the mystery is solved. The last anyone ever saw of him, he had been wounded. I believe he was hit in the ..."
"Leg?"
"Yes. That's right. A Sergeant Davidson wrote in his journal that he saw the captain get shot, saw the blood spurting from his leg, but there was nothing he or anyone else could do."
"Why was that?"
"They were too busily engaged in fighting the enemy. It seems their company was surrounded by Yankees, and there was no time to stop and tend to the wounded."
"So he bled to death."
"That's what was supposed. But then his body was never found. The theory was that with so many men dying that day and the next, he was probably buried in a mass grave with others. Ironically, the captain died just a few short miles from his home. A farm actually. He and his brother Lvle farmed adjacent land."
"How in the world did a farmer become an officer in the Confederate Army? I would have thought he'd be an enlisted man."
"Usually that's the case, but fate stepped in when Kenneth Campbell saved the life of the Confederate president, Jefferson Davis, a year or two before the war. As a reward, Campbell was made a captain of the Confederate Army when the South seceded from the Union."
Amanda was excited to hear that her ancestor played a part in the strange events that were unfolding so rapidly. Just wait until she told Pat. Her sister was the one who had researched their ancestors and found Jefferson Davis sitting in the family tree.
"As you might imagine, it caused quite a ruckus among the more snobbish officers, but their wives adored him. Judging by the many invitations to balls he received, they must have forgiven his rustic manners."
Gazing up at the portrait again, Amanda said, "I can understand that." Studying Captain Campbell's features, she suddenly noticed something odd about the picture. "Why do you suppose he has his fingers crossed on the hand in his lap?"
"We have no idea. You'll notice that he's holding that hand in such a way as to emphasize his crossed fingers. Personally, I think it was meant as a signal of some sort. You know, the way Carol Burnett always tugged on her ear to show her grandmother that she loved her. I suspect it's that same kind of thing."
"Intriguing."
"We have some of his artifacts if you'd like to see them."
"That would be great. Thank you."
"If you'll follow me, I'll show you the case where we keep them on display."
Eager to discover more about her ghost, Amanda followed the librarian through an arched doorway to a small alcove where she gazed into a display case of artifacts. The center of the case was taken up by a Confederate officer's jacket. It thrilled Amanda to think it had once been worn by her ghost.
She couldn't believe her good luck. Just wait till she told Pat what she had discovered. Her sister would have to believe her now.
Spying a small, ornate box that held one lonely, yellowed letter, Amanda asked, "Is that one of the invitations he received?"
"No, it's a letter from his wife, Jennifer. There's quite a mystery surrounding it. You see, the letter was found unopened, hidden away in a secret compartment under a floorboard in one of the bedrooms. I believe I read that your archeological crew is staying at that very same house. It was just recently made into a bed and breakfast."
No wonder the ghost had appeared to her there. My goodness! She could be sleeping in the very room that had belonged to him and his wife.
"The letter wasn't found until nineteen sixty-two when the then owner of the Campbell place was renovating the house. It was addressed to Captain Campbell, but no one knows why Jennifer hid it there. Perhaps her husband knew about the secret hiding place and would have found it, if he had survived the war."
Anticipating her next question, the librarian said, "Of course, the owner of the house opened the letter and read it. I know I certainly would have."
"Do you know what it says?"
"It's really quite strange. It seems Jennifer Campbell was doing poorly, and blamed her sister for her illness. In fact, she died just weeks after writing the letter. Very tragic, but then the whole family came to a tragic end. The little girl, Emily, died a short time after the captain lost his life at Shiloh. Poor little thing was only five. That's where the real mystery comes in. You see, in the letter, Jennifer begged Kenneth not to let her sister Rhoda raise the child. She said that she could never rest easy if her little girl was left in the care of that evil woman. Of course, the letter was never mailed, and the captain died, so Rhoda ended up with the child anyway."
"Oh, no, the poor thing. How did she die?"
"Under very suspicious circumstances. People suspected that Rhoda poisoned her so that she could lay claim to the property. You see, after the death of his wife, Campbell had provided for Rhoda in his will, since she was the one caring for his daughter. Lyle was off fighting the war at the time, so he wasn't there to protect the child; and of course no one knew of the existence of the letter Jennifer wrote, so Rhoda literally got away with murder."
"So if the letter had been mailed instead of hidden, Emily's life could have been spared. How tragic."
"You're forgetting one thing. The captain would never have gotten the letter anyway. He died at the battle of Shiloh. So, Emily still would have died."
Amanda couldn't help but feel sorry for the captain and his family. And she thought she had it tough because her husband had died. It seemed obvious Jennifer Campbell had had good reason to fear for her child's life. If she had felt the need to hide the letter, it could only mean that she had been too ill to mail it herself and hadn't trusted Rhoda to do so for her. Why had she been so fearful of Rhoda? Was it possible her sister had poisoned her as well as the child? But why? Could she have been so greedy that she would murder her own sister?
Amanda spent the rest of the day researching the Campbell family; then, content that she had accomplished what she had set out to do, she returned to the B&B in time for supper. She was eager to tell her sister what she had discovered, but Patricia wasn't back from the dig yet.
She tried to keep her mind off Captain Campbell and all she had discovered about him, but that was impossible; so she decided to take a shower, get into her favorite flannel nightgown, and then spend the evening starting a journal on her experiences with the ghost.
After drying her hair and slipping into an ankle-length, brushed flannel nightgown, she snuggled into an overstuffed chair, took pen in hand, and began writing. When she came to the part about the ghost appearing when she had held the minié ball in her hand, she reached the conclusion that it was, indeed, the minié ball that had brought the captain back from the grave. She would test that theory later on that night, in hope of another glimpse of her ghost.
Her ghost? Well, he hardly belonged to her, but still, she felt he was her own personal discovery. She couldn't help wondering whether the captain would have appeared if someone else had found the minié ball.
She didn't think so. She had nothing solid to base that belief on, but her instincts were usually pretty accurate. She wanted to believe that there was some special reason he had come to her, but knowing how arrogant that sounded, she pushed it from her mind.
Maybe there was something about the minié ball itself. Deciding to inspect it carefully, she made her way over to the nightstand where she had left it. But, gazing down at the spot where she had placed it, she discovered it was gone. Oh, no!
Panicking, she got down on her hands and knees to look under the table, then under the bed, hoping that it had simply rolled off. She had to find it or she'd never see her handsome ghost again. Sweeping her arm back and forth under the bed in a wide arc, she felt for it. It had to be here. It just had to.
Hearing a light rap on her door, Amanda paused.
"Can I come in?"
It was Patricia. "The door's open." Amanda's fingers touched something solid. Aha! There it was. She grasped it, and started to rise when . . .
. . . the familiar scent of peach blossoms wafted to her nose.
Her heart beat wildly as she cautiously rose to a kneeling position and peered over her bed. Pat was walking toward her, and behind her . . . oh, God, behind her, the form of Captain Campbell was taking shape before her eyes.
Clutching the minié ball tighter in her fist, she slowly stood, her gaze locked onto the ghost, watching as he moved around Patricia to stand where he had the night before, with the windows framed behind him.
Patricia saw the dazed look on Amanda's face and knew something was wrong. Reaching the bed, she said, "What is it, Amanda?" Then frowning, she continued, "Never mind, if it has anything to do with your imagined ghost, I don't want to hear about it. I've got enough things to worry about. I got word today that we have only two more weeks before we have to close up shop here, and I can't possibly ..."
Pat's voice trailed off as she realized her sister was gazing at something behind her. Something that was moving to the left, judging by Amanda's eye movements. Unable to bear it any longer, Pat spun around.
The translucent form of a man in a Confederate uniform hovered over her.
Blinking her eyes several times, Pat tried to banish the spectacular image to the nether reaches of her brain where it belonged, but, but, oh God, it wasn't a hallucination; the ghost was still mere.
Petrified, she quickly traversed the bed and came to a halt next to her sister. "This can't be happening. This cannot be happening."
The figure appeared to be unaware of Pat's ranting, in fact seemed completely unaware of her existence, but there was no doubt he was keenly aware of Amanda. She drew him toward her like a bee to pollen.
Still gazing wide-eyed at the ghost, Amanda opened her fist and showed Pat the minié ball. "This is what brought him here. I found it nestled between the bones at the dig. It's the minié ball that killed Captain Campbell."
When she spoke his name, the ghost halted his progress, and his image began to shimmer and quake.
Amanda set the minié ball back on the nightstand, "Did you see that? Saying his name seemed to set off a reaction."
Swallowing hard, Amanda parted her lips.
Realizing with horror what she was about to do, Pat clasped her hand over her sister's mouth. "Are you crazy? Don't you dare say his name again."
Amanda struggled out of Pat's grasp. "Don't you understand? I have to. I just have to. Something phenomenal is happening, and I can't turn my back on it. I have to see it through to the end."
With an expression on her face that pleaded for understanding, Amanda spoke the name again.
CHAPTER FOUR
"Captain Campbell."
A low, keening sound suddenly filled the air as the soldier's form began to shimmer again, fluctuating from misty gray to pale, muted natural colors, then back to gray again.
Patricia's fingers dug into Amanda's arm. "Let's get the hell out of here."
She started tugging on Amanda's sleeve, pulling her toward the door, but Amanda resisted. "Can't you see? He's responding to me. I have to stay. You go."
"Oh, no you don't. I'm not leaving without you. Remember the Three Musketeers? One for all and all for one?"
The Rebel ghost beckoned to her with outstretched arms, and Amanda felt a thrill of excitement. "I think we've just found our third musketeer."
Pat would have answered, but her mouth suddenly turned dry. On one level, she knew it was doubtful the ghost could harm them, but on another, more primitive level, she wanted to flee, afraid of the unknown.
Amanda watched as the ghost looked down at his leg, and she understood. He needed her. That's why he was there. Compelled to act, she pried her sister's fingers away and started toward him.
"Amanda. Don't do this."
"It's the only way, Pat. I think I know why he came to me. He knows I'm a doctor. "
"Oh, great! Now you decide to become a doctor again. Well, you can just forget it. The man is dead. There's nothing you can do for him."
"I'm not so sure of that, Pat. Look at him. He's obviously in pain. Maybe I can help him to rest in peace."
"Are you insane? The man is dead. Honey, I applaud your humanity, but it's wasted on him; can't you see that? You can't bring him back to life again. The only thing that remains of him is a pile of bones at the dig."
"That's not true, or he wouldn't be here. Look at him, Pat, he's more than a pile of bones. Something of him lives on, and I can't turn my back on him. I think he wants me to fix his leg, and if that's what it takes to give him peace, what harm can it do?" While she was speaking, Amanda pulled a suitcase out from under the bed. She opened it and removed the case that held her surgical instruments.
"I don't believe this. Do you hear yourself? Have you any idea how crazy you sound? You're actually considering operating on a dead man."
Pat's negative response had no effect on Amanda. Looking around, she saw the leather tool holder that she used to hold her archeology tools and strapped it around her waist, then placed all the surgical instruments and supplies she would need in its pockets.
Approaching the captain, she gestured with her hands that she was going to sew up his wound, and he became still, staring at her as if he understood. She was right. He did know she was a doctor. She had no idea what would happen when she touched him, but it didn't matter. She had to help him.
She started to reach for him, but paused when she heard a strange rattling noise. Looking over at the night table she saw the minié ball rolling around as if it were alive, and she stared at it in disbelief and fear.
The ghost started moaning softly, and Amanda forgot her fear and reached for him.
The minié ball took flight from the nightstand.
Pat cried out her name in terror, but it sounded to Amanda as if it were coming from far away. The world spun on its axis, and the room turned as black as a moonless night, while Pat's voice echoed in her ears, then turned into a loud ringing noise. She shut her eyes tight to keep from spinning round and round and felt her body being compressed and squeezed as if in a vise.
The ringing grew louder and louder until it became the roar of a thousand voices.
She opened her eyes.
Pink, fragrant flower petals were floating gently down from the sky. In a dreamlike state, she held her hands out as if to capture them. Peach blossoms. Sweet, fragrant peach blossoms, drifting down from endless rows of peach trees.
But there was something odd about the scene. For the life of her she didn't know what it could be. After all, it was spring, wasn't it? Peach trees bloomed in the spring. There was nothing odd about that.
Becoming more in tune to her surroundings, she noticed soldiers dressed in blue and gray. As if in slow motion she saw them, running, shooting, shouting; and she stared at them spellbound. Was she in the midst of an army of ghosts?
An angry buzzing sound assaulted her ears, and she motioned with her hands as if to brush away a bee. The buzzing was followed by a loud crack, and then another and another, and Amanda watched as once again a shower of blossoms fell from the tree. She knew then what made the blossoms fall, and flattened herself against the ground.
The branches were being hit by the force of the soldiers' gunfire. Their bullets, or minié balls, or whatever lethal ammunition they used, whizzed by her head, alarmingly close. Another bullet sped past her and slammed into the thigh of a Confederate soldier standing under a tree several feet away.
She heard him cry out, just as a voice behind her shouted, "The captain's been hit."
The words sent a jolt of adrenaline to her heart. Staring at the familiar face of Captain Kenneth Campbell, now very much alive and bleeding from his leg, she knew, oh, God, she knew. She was smack dab in the middle of the bloodiest battle of the Civil War.
CHAPTER FIVE
Amanda stared at the lifelike form of Captain Kenneth Campbell in fascination. She tried to tell herself that he was nothing more than some fantastic image she had conjured up, but the soft breeze wafting through the killing field, bringing with it the mingled scent of peach blossoms and blood, told her differently.
He was real.
She tried to resist the idea, replacing it with the thought that all she wanted was to get back to her cozy bed-and-breakfast room. To be with her sister. Surely that wasn't too much to ask?
She told herself that being here was just an inexplicable quirk that nature would quickly rectify. That she would be zapped back to her room before she knew it. That she would find herself staring at Captain Campbell's misty presence, instead of seeing him like this, in living, bleeding, color.
Another sharp crack above her, and a twig of peach blossoms landed on her head. She brushed it out of her hair absentmindedly, waiting as precious seconds ticked away.
Waiting for her world to right itself.
Watching as Captain Campbell clutched his leg, his hands turning crimson, unable to contain the blood that spurted from his severed artery.
Knowing if she didn't stop his bleeding he would die.
Was that why she was here?
Had God decided this was the penance she must pay for her husband's death? Or, was He punishing her for denying her calling as a physician by cruelly surrounding her with thousands of dying men?
Whatever the reason she had been swept back in time, she was afraid she wouldn't be returned to her own time until she helped the captain. She was a surgeon. He needed a surgeon. That's all there was to it.
Screwing up her courage, she rose to her feet in the midst of a shower of delicate pink petals and ran toward him, her heart in her throat, the words oh, God, oh, God, turning over and over in her mind as if they had the power to protect her from being hit.
Above the din, she heard someone shout, "Where the hell did she come from? Get her out of here." But the words had no meaning for her; every fiber of her being was focused on reaching the wounded man.
Then suddenly, just inches from her goal, she felt herself being grabbed by rough hands and lifted off the ground. She struggled and shouted, "No, let me go. For God's sake, let me help him."
"Are you crazy, lady? You're goin' to get yourself kilt."
"I'm a doctor. I can save the captain."
The soldier cursed, then let her go. "You do that, then. I don't have time to argue with you. You just do that, and you pray that God watches over you, cuz no one else can spare the time." With a dazed look on his face the soldier wandered off, and Amanda feared he would be easy prey for a bullet in his shocked state.
But there was no time to think of anyone else. Knowing she had to act fast, she grasped hold of the captain's arm.
He slapped her hand away.
Feeling the sting of his slap, she shouted above the terrible noise of the battle, "Captain Campbell, stop wasting time. I'm going to tourniquet your leg."
Ken was surprised she knew his name. Could she be the Angel of Shiloh his men had talked about on the long march back to the land where they had been born? They were superstitious about fighting so close to their homesteads, and had eased their worries with tales of a golden angel who would help them.
Gazing at her now, she certainly looked like an angel. He had thought her one when he first saw her running toward him, her white gown billowing out as she moved, her hair flowing about her face like a golden halo.
Judging by the amount of blood he was losing, he knew another angel would be coming for him very soon. The angel of death, riding toward him on a dark horse headed for hell. That thought was enough to compel him to obey her orders, and using the tree as support, he slid down to the ground.
Amanda quickly tore off the ruffle at the hem of her nightgown and used it as a tourniquet, speaking soothingly to him as she worked, but it was doubtful he could hear her over the awful noise.
Keeping the pressure on, she looked at his face to see how he was doing and was surprised to find him staring at her as if it were he who was being haunted, instead of the other way around. "Captain, you're doing fine, but we've got to get you out of here."
A bubble of laughter burst from his mouth. "Ma'am, I'd surely love to oblige you, but in case you haven't noticed, we're in the middle of a goddamned war. Leave me and hightail it out of here before one of them Yankees hits you by accident."
There was nothing she wanted to do more, but she feared the only chance she had of going back to her own time was to save the captain's life. "Captain, you brought me here to operate on your leg, and that's what I'm going to do."
"Ma'am, one of us is not making any sense, and I suspect it isn't me. I've never seen your pretty face before a moment ago."
It never occurred to her that he wouldn't remember haunting her. "Captain, a moment ago you were in my bedroom."
Smiling faintly, he answered, "Ma'am, I think I would remember being in your bedroom to my dying day."
A minié ball slammed into the tree behind them, reminding them of how soon that dying day might be. This was no time for small talk.
Hunkering down with the captain, Amanda looked over the landscape and was surprised to see the soldier whom she'd thought in shock return with two horses. A boy no more than nine or ten, dressed in Rebel uniform, was mounted on a third. He held a white flag and was waving it over his head. To her amazement the sound of rifle fire lessened until there was no more than a spattering of shooting going on.
"Ma'am, I just cain't stand to see you on this bloody field a moment longer, and I'm hopin' them Yankees will be chivalrous enough to let you ride out of here with the captain. My drummer boy here will lead the way. If'n that white flag was a-waving at me, I'd surely honor it, but there's no tellin' what them Northern boys will do. Anyway, it's just about the only chance you got to git to safety." Turning to the wounded officer, he said, "Captain, can you sit a horse?"
Captain Campbell nodded his head.
Amanda wasn't so sure. "How far do we have to ride?"
"The captain's home is near six mile. Caleb can take you there.
"Too far. The captain doesn't have that much time left."
"Well, then, you just take him to the nearest shelter." Then in almost a whisper, he said, "You try and keep the boy with you. I don't want him comin' back here. He's only ten years old. He don't need to see no more death."
Touched by his concern, Amanda patted his arm. "You take care of yourself, sir."
The soldier clasped his hands to take her foot and help her on the horse, and Amanda almost panicked, seeing the giant animal she was expected to ride. Oh, damn. Oh, damn. She had always been afraid of horses, but she had no choice; she had to do as the soldier asked if she wanted to get the captain to a safe place.
The soldier lifted first her and then the captain, and before she knew it, he was slapping the rear of her horse, sending her on her way with, "God be with you."
She gripped the saddle horn tightly with one hand, the leather reins in the other, holding on as best she could. Oddly, her fear diminished a little when she felt the great power of the animal beneath her. It was as if nothing could harm her as long as she was on his back.
Daring a quick glance at the others, she saw that the captain's face was drawn and tight, and she knew what pain he must be in. As she watched, he slumped over in the saddle, and she feared he'd fall off. Hold on, Captain. Please hold on.
The three horses started across the open meadow side by side, the drummer boy waving the white flag wildly, his horse snorting and struggling against the tight reins. The captain rode in the middle, struggling to stay on his mount, and Amanda, dressed only in a white flannel nightgown, rode closest to the Confederate troops lining the length of the field.
Her long hair fanned out behind her as they rode, while her gown, cinched in at the waist by the bulky leather tool belt holding her surgical instruments, caught the wind like a sail, billowing out like a white cloud.
Stray peach petals floated through the air, turning the scene into an almost surreal landscape, and she saw it in her mind as God must, from a bird's-eye view, and knew the world must truly have gone mad to wage war in such a beautiful place.
A moment ago the gunfire had been so rapid that a thick blue haze drifted over the meadow, but now it slowed to a few shots as more and more soldiers became aware of her presence. Still, the smell of sulfur and smoke was thick in the air, clogging her nostrils with the awful odor.
Angry shouts rang out from both sides of the field for the stragglers to cease their firing, and in a moment the scene turned so quiet she could hear the blood pumping through her veins.
Soldiers from both sides watched as she rode past, and in the eerie silence where not even the trees dared to sigh, she remembered the casualty count for the battle at Shiloh. Her heart broke knowing how many of the soldiers who gazed at her with almost reverent awe would be dead before the day was over.
A hard lump formed in her throat as she stared at each face in turn. It didn't matter whether they wore blue or gray; their grim expressions reflected the same horrors of war. Young men and old, some no more than boys, their faces fatigued but steadfast, faced each other across the wide expanse.
Their rifles were bayonetted, and she knew what that meant. They would be fighting at close quarters. Where did they find the courage? What made them do it? It seemed to her that it went beyond the call of duty to die for your country.
The soldiers stared at her with unblinking eyes, almost dazed, it seemed, to see a woman in such a place as this, and she knew then that it was more than country they fought for. It was for family, for a way of life, for all the loved ones waiting for them to return. In their eyes, she must represent their mothers, daughters, sisters, and wives, and it saddened her to know that.
As she continued across the field tears scalded her eyes, blurring her vision. Tears for the brave men, tears for the women who would never see their loved ones again. But she quickly brushed them away, realizing that for so many of them, her face would be the last female they ever saw. She wanted it to be a smiling face they took to their grave.
Oh, God, why are you putting me through this? Send me back. Please send me back.
But God was deaf today, so she rode on, a smile frozen on her lips, the faint piped strains of "Dixie" drifting to her on the wind. She heard the low murmur of voices adding words to the song, and she realized the music was for her benefit. Too frightened to let go of the saddle horn long enough to wave, she nodded her head toward the gray-clad men, acknowledging their song, and a cheer went up along the ranks. A thrill of excitement coursed through her, and she dug her knees into the great animal beneath her and started into a gallop.
On the other side of the field, a few loud voices began singing "Yankee Doodle" boisterously, and soon several others joined in. Amanda turned her head to acknowledge them with a nod, too, and another cheer went up, much louder than the first.
By that time she and her companions had reached the other side of the meadow. The Rebels, not wanting to be outdone, gave what could only be their infamous Rebel yell, a cry such as no man or woman from her century had ever heard. She could only describe it as the noise of a hundred banshees combined with the howling of a pack of ravenous wolves. The sound carried across the field in undulating waves, sending a chill straight through her heart.
The Yankees answered with a volley of fire, and the fighting began again in earnest.
Thankfully, she was out of sight of the fighting by then. Yet even though she could no longer see their battle-weary faces, their images remained in her mind. Until the day she died, she'd be haunted by the memory of this awful day.
But time was growing short for Captain Campbell, and she put the battle behind her and urged the drummer boy to ride faster. They rode on and on as the noise from the battlefield grew fainter and fainter, until glancing over at the captain, she knew he could go no farther. In the distance she saw a cluster of small shacks and speculated that they must belong to slaves. Shouting to the drummer boy, she said, "We'll stop here."
"Ma'am, you sure of that? I recollect a cottage farther down the road that'd be more fittin' for y'all."
"The captain is in no condition to ride any farther." As if to prove her right, Captain Campbell fell to the ground with an audible thud.
Amanda watched in horror as the captain's body tumbled over and over before coming to rest in an awkward splayed position. Swinging her leg over the saddle, she slid down the horse, then ran to him. Please, God, let him be alive. Lifting his limp hand, she took his pulse. It was feathery and faint, and she realized he must have been holding on to consciousness by a thread.
Adrenaline pumped through her as she contemplated what she should do. Gazing around at the landscape, the air seemed too still, too empty of living things. The occupants of the slave shacks must have fled as soon as they got wind of the battle.
Gesturing to the drummer boy to help her, Amanda took one of the captain's arms around her shoulders and half walked, half dragged him inside the nearest dwelling.
Amanda found herself standing in a sparsely furnished, one-room shack. A rough-hewn table and benches stood near a blackened fireplace, and the thick, smoky smell of countless fires permeated the air. The only other furniture was a double bed that had seen better days. Most likely a hand-me-down from the slaves' owners. She shivered as the noble purpose of the Civil War came back to haunt her. Who could deny, seeing the way slaves were forced to live, that the North had righteousness on their side?
But there would be time for contemplation later; right now she had to help the captain. She was grateful that he had passed out. It made her job a lot easier. With the boy's help she got him on the bed and immediately started working on him. Taking scissors from her tool belt, she slit the captain's pant leg and began the surgery. The drummer boy watched, his eyes large with wonder while she removed the minié ball, now grizzled and misshapen, and passed it to him. With shaking hand, he placed it on the table.
She did the best she could, under the circumstances, and when she was finished sewing him up, she prayed fervently that his wound wouldn't become infected. With no disinfectant, nothing to wash the wound but the water from the drummer boy's canteen, nothing to bind the injury but another strip from her nightgown, there was always that danger.
When she was done, she brushed the hair out of her eyes with the back of her bloodstained hand and smiled reassuringly at the boy.  “Your captain's doing well. Barring any complications, he'll pull through this."
The boy let out his breath so violently, she thought he must have been holding it in a long time.
"Ma'am, the sergeant will be mighty glad to hear that. If'n you'll excuse me, I'll be riding back now to tell him." The boy started for the door, but Amanda halted him with her voice.
"Please don't go."
"Ma'am, I have to go; my company needs me."
Gazing at his small, brave form, she saw that he really believed what he said. How could she ever convince him to stay? "I need you more. You can't leave me here alone. What would I do?"
"Ma'am, after what you've just done, I think you'll be just fine. I know grown men who would have fainted dead away just a-watching you with that knife. Anyhow, my place is with my company. We'uns started off to fight this war together, and I reckon, if it's God's will, we'll die together."
"But you're just a boy."
With a tortured look on his face, he replied, "You don't understand anythin', do you? I ain't been a boy since the war began."
Amanda looked into the wizened, haunted eyes that gazed at her with such determination, and she knew he could never stay there with her. He could never go back to being a boy again, safe and protected by a female. She smiled at him and, with a catch in her voice, gave him permission to go on being a man. "You're right. Your company needs you more than I do."
The boy's face lit up so brightly, she knew she had done the right thing.
"Goodbye, ma'am." Caleb offered his hand to Amanda, and she wiped her sticky hand on her gown, then took the small, child-sized but calloused hand in hers while he pumped it stiffly. She wanted to fold him in her arms, and protect him from the war, but seeing the way he looked at her, she knew he would never let her get that close to him. He was right. He wasn't a boy any longer. He started out the door, and she called out, "Soldier, may God bless you and keep you safe."
He never looked back as he made his way to his horse, and unable to keep her tears contained for one more second, she sat down by the rickety bed, put her head on the captain's chest, and cried.
From a great distance, Ken heard sobbing and thought that he must surely have died and was witness to his own burial. He opened his eyes and was astonished to see a woman's face pressed against his chest. He recognized her as the Angel of Shiloh, and lordy, the men couldn't have conjured up a prettier one than she.
At this close distance he could see a heart-shaped mole at the corner of her mouth, and he thought it was just the right touch for such an angelic face.
She was crying so hard he thought her heart must surely be breaking in two, and he lifted his hand to stroke her hair. His arm felt heavy and sluggish, and he realized that he had very little strength left. But he was alive; that was all that mattered. He would live to go back to his little Emily.
His hand finally found the angel's hair, and it came down heavily on her. Instantly, her sobbing stopped, and she opened her eyes and gazed at him. They were a heavenly blue, the perfect color for an angel, glistening like sunbeams reflected on an azure lake. He drank his fill of them, and felt restored.
Staring back at the captain, Amanda felt the same strange longing she had experienced when she had gazed at his portrait. Now, in such close contact with him, her heart ached fiercely. There was something about him that appealed to her on so many mysterious levels, she couldn't begin to understand them all. Never in her life had she felt such a powerful pull, and that bothered her greatly.
This was his world, not hers. She had come here only to save his life, and surely, surely, God in his mercy would send her back to her own life, her own time, very soon now.
She had to go back. Her sister must be going out of her mind with worry. A sob escaped her, dunking of Pat's wish that they be as close as the Three Musketeers. She would will herself back. After all, she had come to the past easily enough. Surely it would be just as easy to go back.
Remembering the minié ball, she reached for it and wiped it off as best she could. Then holding it tight in her fist, Amanda closed her eyes and concentrated on her room at the B&B, but the rhythm of the captain's breathing was interfering with her thoughts.
She rose to her feet, trying to escape his powerful pull, and with hands on her hips murmured defiantly,  “All right, God, you can send me back now. I've learned my lesson. Believe me, I have. I know I should never have given up my calling as a doctor, and I promise to return to it just as soon as I get back."
Ken was sure by now that he was hallucinating. How else to explain the crazy way the girl was acting. He drifted off to sleep with that thought on his mind.
What seemed like a lifetime later, it became clear to Amanda that she wasn't going anywhere, and a cold, dread feeling of helplessness came over her. She knew she had to pull herself together, or she would be lost. Giving herself a pep talk, she thought, Okay, you've gone through four years of college, eight years of medical school, and you survived countless foster homes. You can handle anything this century throws at you.
Feeling a little better, she decided the first order of business would be to wash the blood off her hands and get out of her ruined nightgown. She looked around the room for a sink. There was none. And no stove or refrigerator either. Of course there wasn't. It was the middle of the nineteenth century, for heaven's sake.
So how did they wash? She hadn't noticed a pond, or river, or any other body of water when they had ridden here. Going outside, she searched for a source of water. Spying an old-fashioned water pump attached to a rugged wooden frame, she remembered seeing them in old movies and figured all she had to do was pump the handle and water would come splashing out. There was a tin cup full of water sitting next to it, and she figured someone had been in a mighty big hurry to leave it behind.
She started pumping until her arm felt like it was going to fall off, but no water came out. Damn it all. There had to be away. The people who lived here couldn't live without water. There had to be some way of getting the pump to work.
After a few more tries at pumping the handle, she gave up and in desperation used the cup of slimy water to wash the blood off her hands as best she could, then dried her hands on her nightgown.
Going back inside, she found a battered old trunk and rummaged through it for something to wear. It was meager pickings to be sure, but she found a brown, homespun fabric skirt and a tattered white blouse and changed into them. At least, she felt like she had accomplished something. That small satisfaction lasted only until she heard the captain cry out for water.
Of course he was thirsty. His body was demanding water to resupply all the fluid he had lost. What was she going to do?
Making her way to his side, she knelt beside the cot, and said, "Captain, I know how thirsty you must be, but first, you have to tell me how to get water out of the pump."
Kenneth opened his eyes, surprised to see his Angel of Shiloh was still there. But instead of the white flowing robe, she was now dressed in rags. Ugly though they were, they only emphasized all the more her angelic face.
She was still his Angel of Shiloh. Surely she knew how to work a pump? But then, angels didn't need to know how to do menial labor, did they? They just rode around on clouds all day. "Ma'am, just prime it, and the water will flow."
"Prime it? How do you do that?"
Kenneth's lips were parched, his throat was dry as toast, his leg hurt like hell, and the Angel of Shiloh was beginning to try his patience. "Pour a cup of water into the pump. Surely you've primed a pump before."
Amanda's heart sank. So that's what the cup of water had been for. "I—uh—I'm afraid I used that water to wash my hands."
Ken was getting weary. He wanted to close his eyes and sleep, but his blasted thirst kept him from it. "Pardon my language Angel, but where the hell were you raised? Surely even the most pampered lady would have primed a pump once in her life."
Though he spoke very quietly, Amanda was not happy with his tone of voice, but how could she blame him for being irritated? "I'm sorry, I really am, but you can't imagine how hard it is for me to be here right this minute."
Thinking her a spoiled crybaby, Ken felt no need for mincing words. "No harder than for me, lying here with a goddamned leg shot to hell and a thirst that is getting worse by the minute."
So much for speaking quietly. Well, she would show him just how civilized she could be. "Captain, I'd appreciate it if you'd use a little self-control. It'll do no good to lose your temper. Especially after I've just saved your life! If not for me, you'd still be a ghost, haunting me back at the B&B."
Ken shook his head as if to clear cobwebs from it. He didn't understand a word of what she said. Pretending a calmness that he didn't feel, he said with exaggerated patience to make sure she understood every word, "Just— go—to—my—horse—and—get—the—canteen—from— my—saddlebags. Then—pour—a—little—into—the— pump—handle—and commence pumping!"
Afraid of losing her temper, too, Amanda left without answering him. Determined to overcome her fear of horses, she bravely walked up to the one the captain had been riding and, talking soothingly to it, fished around in the saddlebags for the canteen. Triumphant in her quest and determined to get it right, she did as he had instructed, and sure enough, after a few dry pumps, water started spilling out.
Jubilant, she filled up his canteen, then filled up a large pot she found in the shack as well.
When she handed him the canteen, he drank greedily, and her anger faded away. Poor guy, he'd been through just as much as she had. In a few moments he drifted back to sleep peacefully, and she took her first easy breath.
It was growing dark now, and out of habit, she looked for a light switch, then with a sinking heart remembered there was no electricity. Yeah, and no hot and cold running water, no toilet, no.... She walked over to the window and gazed outside, watching as lightning lit up the sky. No, not lightning, cannon fire from the battle raging such a short distance away.
Fighting a soul-deep depression, she tried to feel optimistic about her future, but the only cheerful thing that she could think of was that she had been in the middle of a battle and had survived. But what about the next crisis looming ahead of her? What was she going to do when the captain wanted food? She had already checked the one lonely cupboard and found nothing she was familiar with but a sack of flour and a basket full of sweet potatoes. And she hadn't the foggiest idea how she was supposed to cook them.
Did they have matches in 1862? Probably not, she couldn't be that lucky. The captain was really going to think her an idiot when she told him she didn't know how to do the most basic task—start a fire.
Staring out the window, she watched as a shroud of darkness spread across the landscape, leaving nothing but a tiny spark of hope that God would right her topsy-turvy world and give her back her life.
CHAPTER SIX
As it grew darker and darker, the world seemed to close in on Amanda, until numb with shock she could do nothing but stare out the window with unblinking eyes and wonder how she was going to get through the long, dark night.
In her search of the shack she had found candles and even an oil lamp, but what good were they when she was still faced with the problem of how to light them.
Feeling more helpless than she had ever felt in her life, she could only wonder why God hadn't sent her back to her own time by now. Were there still lessons for her to learn? Hadn't she suffered enough? What more did He want from her?
The sound of shells exploding in the distance made her feel uneasy, scared that a stray one would hit the slave hut.  She remembered from reading an account of the battle that the shelling went on all night. On top of that was the raw terror that engulfed her in the darkest night she had ever witnessed.
She had always been frightened of the dark. She remembered all the strange bedrooms she'd had to sleep in, in all the foster homes she had been sent to. How many times had she awakened from a sound sleep, trying to remember which house she was in? Trying to remember which set of foster parents she must call Mommy and Daddy that day.
On the rare occasion when she and her sister had resided in the same foster home, they had huddled together at night, giving and receiving comfort from each other. How she wished Pat were here. If ever she needed comforting, it was now.
Mixed in with the muffled sounds of war, a lone whippoorwill sang out from somewhere near by, repeating its plaintive tune over and over, and a chorus of frogs added their gruff voices. She swore they were speaking to her, saying, "A-mand-a, A-mand-a."
Oh, God, she would be stark raving mad by morning.
The captain groaned in his sleep, and grateful for something to take her mind off her predicament, she rose from her seat by the window and made her way over to him. Feeling his forehead, she was relieved to find it cool to the touch. That was a hopeful sign.
Sitting down on the bed, she stroked his hair with her hand, and felt oddly comforted by it. It was too dark to see his face, but she pictured it in her head, and again wondered at the powerful attraction she felt toward him.
After a while the soothing stroking relaxed her enough to feel sleepy, and her head began to nod, too heavy to hold up any longer. Lying down on the bed, she nestled against the captain's body and fell into a deep sleep.
A raucous noise awoke her with a start, and with jangled nerves, she realized it was a rooster greeting the dawn. Everything came back to her in a rush of deep despair, and she thought, Oh, no, I'm really here.
The rooster crowed again, waking the captain, and he groaned and opened his eyes, gazing at the Angel of Shiloh. "You're really here."
It struck her as funny that he should echo her thoughts, but instead of laughter, a loud sob escaped her throat. Getting off the bed, she said, "Oh, I'm here all right."
Ken could see that she was close to tears, but for the life of him, he couldn't figure out why. In all his years, he had never known such an unfathomable creature. On one hand she seemed to have the wisdom of a sage, knowing just how to care for his wound, and she certainly was as brave as any soldier he had ever known. And then there was the side of her that seemed ignorant of daily chores, and now, this unexplained emotion. What did she have to be so upset about?
Whatever it was, he hoped she wouldn't erupt into tears. He never could stand seeing a woman cry. Trying to steer her thoughts away from whatever was troubling her, he said, "Sure am hungry. Think you could rustle up somethin' to eat?"
He watched as she visibly paled, and it came to him that cooking wasn't on her list of domestic skills either. How in blazes had she lived to be an adult without knowing the necessary skills to survive?
The captain's need for food made Amanda's sense of helplessness all the more intolerable, and in a voice close to breaking, she replied, "I wish to God I could cook you something, Captain. But, it's just my luck matches haven't been invented yet, and that's the only way I know how to start a fire."
Ken could see that she was perfectly serious about what she said, and shaking his head, he replied, "Ma'am, I do believe you must come from some mighty primitive place to be so ignorant of modern conveniences."
Amanda burst out laughing at his words. "Primitive place? That's really ironic. I come from a world so advanced you couldn't even begin to dream of it. I come from a world on the brink of a new millennium."
"I see." Ken didn't see at all, but he was at a loss for how to cope with this irrational female. "In this advanced world of the future, you say matches have already been invented. Is that right?"
"That's right. Matches. Little sticks that make a flame when you strike them against something rough."
"Is that so? Well, ma'am, I guess we're not so primitive here as you might think. If you'll just go hunt in my saddlebag, I do believe you'll find quite a few of those nonexistent matches in a tin box."
Amanda felt like a complete fool. Hoping to salvage what little was left of her dignity, she said, "Well, there you go. They've been around such a short time, I, uh, completely forgot they're—"
"Ma'am, I don't know anything about where you come from, but they've been around these parts since before I was born."
"Oh!" Amanda blushed, knowing how idiotic she must seem to the captain. How was she supposed to know matches were old hat by 1862?
Ken saw her face redden and became all the more confused. She couldn't be as dumb as she sounded, not if she was intelligent enough to be embarrassed over her foolish mistake; but it relieved him to know there was a modicum of knowledge behind that pretty face. Still, he was at a loss to explain her bizarre behavior. Perhaps she was afflicted with some kind of brain fever.
Aware of the fullness in his bladder, Ken swung his legs over the bed, bent on getting up. The pain that followed almost made him pass out.
Amanda saw his face turn ashen and cried, "Captain, don't you dare get out of bed. I don't want you busting open your sutures."
"No need to worry about that, ma'am. Least not until my pain subsides a bit. God damn that hurts. You sure you used cat gut to sew me up? Feels more like barbed wire."
"Barbed wire? I can assure you, sir, that no one in your century has ever been operated on so skillfully, if I do say so myself."
Yup. Brain fever. That's what it was. He decided the only thing to do was humor her, but what was he going to do about the delicate matter of relieving himself. The last thing he wanted was for her to have to help him with that.
The pain in his leg had subsided enough to try one more time to stand, and gritting his teeth, he stood up, over her protest, and slowly inched his way to the door, cursing under his breath as the pain tore through him.
"Where do you think you're going, soldier? Get back into bed."
"Ma'am, there are some things a man has to do. I hope you get my meaning."
She got his meaning all right. Feeling unexpectedly buoyant that the captain had control over his bodily functions, and the strength to see to them, she answered sheepishly, "Fine. I'll just go see about starting that fire with those newfangled matches of yours."
Scooting around him in the narrow doorway, she couldn't help but notice how tall he was. He fairly filled the door frame with his masculine presence. He gazed down at her as she passed, and her heart fluttered wildly. He was looking at her as a man looks at a desirable woman. Yeah, his bodily functions were returning all right. Suddenly shy, she lowered her gaze and stepped outside.
Ken sensed her nervousness, and smiled to himself. Some things never changed. He followed her through the door and started to make his way to the outhouse when out of the corner of his eye, he saw the horses still saddled and tied to a hitching post. "My God, woman, it's a good thing you're so pretty, cuz you sure are empty-headed."
Amanda had had just about all she could take of his insults, wounded or not. "Empty-headed? It just so happens I'm a physician, and a great deal more educated than any run-of-the-mill soldier whose only function in life is to be fodder for cannons."
Ken laughed out loud at that. Doctor? He could add liar to his list of grievances against her. She sure was brazenfaced to stand there dressed in rags and call herself a doctor.
Oh, he knew there was at least one female doctor in America. Before the war started the newspapers had been full of her. He even remembered her name: Elizabeth Blackwell. But it was ludicrous to think of this spoiled, empty-headed chit suffering through what had to have been a long, grueling education to earn that tide. "Seems to me such an educated medical doctor would know better man to leave those poor animals saddled all night."
"Well, forgive me, but I had my hands full last night trying to save your life. It didn't occur to me that I would be expected to attend to the animals, too."
"Ma'am, that dappled gray out there is not just any animal. That's Ghost Dancer. Got him from a Cherokee warrior in trade for a gold watch, and I love him dearly.  He's saved my hide more than once in battle, and he deserves to be treated with respect."
"Respect? Respect? Yes, let's talk about respect. Where I come from, men don't treat me like the village idiot. I'm a highly respected doctor, not some damn stable hand, so get off my back."
Ken was taken aback by her outburst. Her temper surely rivaled his own. "I apologize, ma'am. I didn't mean to insult you."
"And stop calling me ma'am. It makes me feel like your mother. My name is Amanda. Amanda Davis."
"Davis? I suppose you're goin' to tell me you're related to our glorious Confederate president, Jefferson Davis?"
She wasn't going to tell him anything of the kind, even if it was the truth, but then, seeing his arrogance, she couldn't help herself. "As a matter of fact, yes. He's an ancestor of mine. My sister researched his genealogy and found out we are his direct descendents. Since our parents died when we were very young, it gave us a feeling of family to know that we were connected to him."
Then, remembering Captain Campbell had saved Davis's life, Amanda had a thought so profound it made her head swim. Would she ever have been born if the captain hadn't saved Jefferson Davis?
And now she had saved the captain's life. It had all come full circle. Was that why she had been sent here, to close the circle? If so, surely that meant she would return to her own time very soon now.
Ken shook his head at the lies her pretty little head could spin. He wondered if her name was even Davis. No way of knowing, since he couldn't believe a word she said. What a pity such a beautiful woman could be so flawed. But flawed or not, she was right. He should have treated her with respect. "Seeing as how we're gettin' to know each other real well, why don't you call me Ken? I'm real sorry for gettin' you all worked up like that, ma'am, I mean, Miss Davis. It's just that a man's horse is his most prized possession next to his rifle, so . . ."
"I don't doubt that one bit, the way you treat me. Just where do women fit in your life, anyway, before or after your hunting dog? No wonder Jennifer—"
Taking her by the shoulders, his fingers dug into her. "Jennifer? What do you know about my wife?"
She realized too late that it was a mistake to mention his wife's name, but she certainly hadn't expected a violent reaction from him. Calming her voice, she said, "I know that she died, and that her sister Rhoda is now caring for your daughter, Emily."
Ken's expression changed several times as he listened to her talk. She was a stranger, yet she knew about his family. Had he been delirious or talking in his sleep? How else could she know those things. "How do you know about my family?"
Realizing the importance of the moment, she answered almost matter-of-factly, "I know, Captain, because I researched your life in the historical library that bears your name. My ancestor, Jefferson Davis, donated the land for it after your death on April sixth, eighteen sixty-two."
"But that's crazy. Yesterdaywas April sixth. Unless you're talking to a ghost, I'm still alive."
Amanda smiled. She didn't think he could handle hearing that he had really been a ghost, so she skipped over that part. "1 was sent back in time to save your life. Not that I purposely chose to come here; I'm not that brave. But God had a higher purpose in mind for me, so here I am."
Ken could see that she believed every word she said, and she spoke so sincerely, he almost believed it himself. "I'm mighty obliged to you, ma ... Miss Davis."
Amanda's relief swelled up, and burst forth in sudden tears. "You believe me? Oh, thank God! You can't imagine how alone I felt with no one to understand what I've been through."
Ken didn't have the heart to tell her that he still didn't believe her, but what harm could there be in pretending? It was obvious she had a real need to be believed. But did she have to cry? Feeling helpless in the wake of all those tears, he gently put his arms around her and drew her close to his chest. Whatever her imagined problem, her anguish was real.
She seemed so frail and small in his arms, it brought a lump to his throat. It had been a long time since he held a woman. He thought of Jennifer then, and realized how much he missed her still. The last time he had held her, she had cried because he was going off to a secret meeting with Jeff Davis a year before the war. He hadn't seen her again until her funeral.
Now, here he was once again, holding a sobbing woman. He didn't know if his heart was up to it. But, oh, he had to admit that it felt good to hold her. Her body merged with his so easily, as if she were designed to be there.
Lost in Ken's arms, Amanda was overwhelmed with emotion. It was as if she was meant to be there, content and safe, protected as she had never felt before in her parentless world. She wanted to stay inside his embrace forever, but the distant sounds of battle were growing louder, bringing her quickly back to reality. Was the fighting closer today? "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be such a crybaby. You must be in agony standing here like this."
Could she read his mind, too? Ken wondered. Then realizing she meant the agony of his wound and not the torment of his soul, he said, "It doesn't hurt all that bad anymore. But I do need a private moment, if you'll excuse me."
Stepping out of his way, she answered softly, "Of course. I'll see to fixing you something to eat now."
Armed with the captain's matches, Amanda made a fire, then went outside to find some sticks to use as skewers. Returning, she stuck the potatoes on the ends of the sticks and propped them over the fire, feeling very smug that she was learning new skills.
When Ken returned, his face drawn and pale, she knew the trip to the outhouse had been too much for him. She helped him to the bed and placed his leg in a comfortable position. She felt like saying I told you so, but stilled her tongue, certain he had learned his lesson.
Returning to her kitchen chores, she found some tin plates and wooden spoons and forks, and placed them on the table. Further investigation rewarded her with a sack of salt and a bowl full of disgustingly white animal fat for cooking. She sniffed at it; it didn't smell rancid, but, ugh, what was that other awful smell?
Oh, no! The potatoes!
Lifting the sticks out of the fire, her worst fears were realized. The potatoes had burnt so badly they were little more than piles of ashes. Now what was she going to do? If their survival was up to her, they might as well walk right back into the battle, because she sure as hell was doing a lousy job of it.
Ken had been salivating over the delicious scent of roasting potatoes. But suddenly the scent grew stronger, and he knew that once again, she had shown her ineptness at anything related to domestic chores. Remembering the dressing down he got the last time he lit into her, he worked hard at curbing his anger and in barely more than a whimper said, "Say it isn't true, Miss Davis. Tell me you haven't burnt the potatoes."
Amanda turned to face him, as upset as he at the ruined meal. One look at his face, and she became too choked up to talk. She ran from the small shack, needing to put distance between her and the captain's obvious frustration at her.
But his frustration was nothing compared to her own. She hated being so incompetent. Hated looking stupid in his eyes. But most of all she hated feeling so helpless. How could she ever face him again?
In desperation, she looked around, needing to find something she could feed to the captain. Spying the noisy rooster that woke her, she pictured wringing its scrawny neck, when suddenly, she had a flash of insight. Where there were roosters, there had to be chickens, and chickens laid eggs.
Her eyes scoured the bleak landscape, lighting on a speckled hen scratching at the barren earth. And there was another and another. Hallelujah! She headed for them, ready to do battle if she must, to take their eggs.
But she needn't have worried. The hens scattered when she approached, and she easily scooped up several eggs and carried them inside.
Eggs. Yes! She was familiar with eggs. She could cook them with one hand tied behind her back. With great gusto, she put a heavy skillet over the fire and dug up a gob of animal fat from an earthen bowl and melted it in the pan. Then finding a long wooden spoon, she set about scrambling up all the eggs.
At first Ken was puzzled at the woman's strange behavior, but soon he understood what was going on and watched in amused silence as she worked feverishly at preparing the eggs. She would probably end up burning them, too, but he had to admire her determination. It was obvious she wanted to prove to him that she could do something right, and he certainly hoped she succeeded. He was starving.
Triumphant at her success, Amanda slapped the eggs on a tin plate and stuck it in front of the captain's face. "Here. You wanted food. You've got it. Eat."
Amanda didn't miss the twinkle in his eyes when he answered, "Mighty tasty-looking eggs, but where's yours?"
Amanda had been so set on feeding the captain, she totally forgot to save any for herself. Backing toward the door, she said, "Of course. I'll, uh, just go back out and hunt up some more eggs."
Scooting out the door before he had a chance to answer, Amanda sighed, and set about gathering more eggs. It was quite a lot like an Easter egg hunt, she discovered, because free-ranging chickens hid their nests of eggs in the strangest places. She even found some piled up high inside a hat propped up against a tree stump. It was a stovepipe hat, the kind Abraham Lincoln wore in most of his photographs.
Abraham Lincoln. To think he was alive this very moment. What she wouldn't give to see him in person. It staggered her mind to think of being in the presence of such a wonderful legend. Not to mention her own illustrious ancestor Jefferson Davis. Imagine meeting him! She would love to see if there was any family resemblance.
Later that afternoon, the captain drifted off to sleep, and Amanda was glad. He was not exactly the easiest patient to handle. He had professed that he wanted to return to the battle, and she had reminded him how weak he had been just walking to the outhouse.
At least he wasn't a fool. There was no more talk of returning to the war after that. And knowing what she did, that the Confederate troops would be defeated today, the second day of the battle, she knew he could never endure the long retreat to Corinth, Mississippi, in his condition.
As if in response to her thoughts, she heard the familiar strain of "Dixie" drifting to her and looked over to the road. Rebel soldiers were making their way up the hill, their ragged flag waving to her from the first row of infantrymen.
She watched as they marched by, their faces streaked with mud and blood, and she could only imagine the hell they had been through. Spying a form much smaller than the others, she waved wildly at the little drummer boy, Caleb, who had escorted her to the shack, relieved to know she had not sent him to his death.
The boy broke ranks with the others and made his way over to her. "How is Captain Campbell? His brother is mighty anxious to know if he survived."
"His brother?" Amanda looked over at the troops marching, searching for a face similar to the captain's.
"Yes, ma'am. I told him all about what you done for the captain, and he was mighty grateful."
"Where is he?"
Before the boy could answer, Sergeant Lyle Campbell, blond and bearded and every bit as good-looking as his brother, rode his horse over to her, then swept his hat from his head with a flourish. "Ma'am, I'm Lyle, Ken's brother. Sure hope you have good news for me."
"Come see for yourself. Your brother is sleeping peacefully. His color is returning already. I'd say the Campbells are made of strong stock.''
"You're right about that, ma'am." Glancing over at the marching troops, Lyle said, "I'd like to peek in on him a minute, if you don't mind."
"Of course, I'm sure he'd love to see you."
"I don't plan on waking him, ma'am. He needs to rest.  God knows we all need that. I can only stay a moment. We're retreating to Corinth." The soldier rode his horse over to the shack and quickly dismounted, then strode inside. By the time Amanda caught up to him, he was standing by the bed gazing down at his sleeping brother.
His eyes glistening with unfallen tears, he smiled warmly at Amanda. "I want to thank you kindly for saving his life. When they told me what happened, I thought for sure he was a goner. General Johnstone bled to death yesterday, sufferin' the same kind of wound. It must be true what the men are sayin', that you're the Angel of Shiloh."
"Do I look like an angel to you, sir, dressed in these awful rags?"
Gazing at her solemnly, he said, "Yes, ma'am, you do."
A lump formed in Amanda's throat, and she dared not answer for fear of breaking down.
"Ken's a very lucky man. More ways than one. He has a beautiful angel watching over him, and he can go home now."
"I hope he sees it that way. For his little girl's sake. She's going to need him very much."
Lyle looked at her with a puzzled expression. "I'm sure Emily would love having her daddy home, but she's in capable hands. She's in the care of her aunt Rhoda."
That's what she feared. Barren though Amanda was, she still had strong maternal feelings, and right now they were working overtime. She experienced a strong need to protect that helpless child.
"When will he be well enough to go home? I hate to see the two of you suffering in a shack not fit for man or beast."
"He's recuperating pretty fast. I'd say in just a few days."
"Well, ain't that just fine. Sure wish there was time to stop there myself, it being just a few miles from here, but the Yankees have us on the run."
Just a few miles from here. A shiver of excitement coursed through her at the thought that in a few short days, she would be facing a murderer.
CHAPTER SEVEN
With a heavy heart Amanda watched Lyle Campbell ride out to join the ragged column of gray-clad men. When the last of the soldiers disappeared from sight, she couldn't bear the awful loneliness that crept over her. In need of contact with another living being, she went back inside to sit beside the bed of the sleeping Rebel soldier. Gazing down at his beautiful face, a calmness came over her. She wasn't alone, not as long as he was with her.
As if to make sure he was really there, she reached out to caress the woolen sleeve of his Confederate uniform, and it came to her that just a short time ago she had been gazing at it through the glass of a display case. It seemed incredible that she was actually here in the midst of the Civil War, and yet, as daunting as that was, it wasn't nearly as hard to cope with as contemplating the consequences of interfering with destiny. It scared her to think she might be responsible for changing the future. For one, the historical library that held his uniform might not be there when— if—she returned to 1999. Or, possibly, the library would still be there, but now, since the captain had survived the battle, it would be named after someone else.
But despite the nagging worry, she questioned whether anything could really alter the future, or the natural order of things. Perhaps nature had the power to keep that from happening.
But ... if the future couldn't be changed, that meant death would find a way to reclaim the life she had resurrected with her surgeon's skills. No. She refused to believe that. God couldn't have put her through all this for nothing. Looking at Kenneth sleeping, she felt strongly that he was destined to live and love again, but what was ahead for her? Would she live out her life in the past, or back in the future?
She had been lonely all her life. The trauma of living here was nothing compared to what she had experienced growing up without the love of a mother and father. In fact, if it wasn't for her sister, she would have no compelling reason to ever go back to her own time.
And what if she did get sent back? How could she ever be happy when she couldn't bear the thought of a world without a living, breathing Kenneth Campbell in it? She was half in love with him already.
Love. All her life she had craved it, but was unable to give it in return. Looking back at her marriage, she realized she had felt so flattered that a decent, honorable man like John would choose her for his wife, she had completely dismissed from her mind one important fact. He deserved a wife who could return his love.
He had done so much for her, even putting her through medical school, and how had she repaid him? Each year she had withdrawn from him a little more, until she couldn't bear for him to touch her.
Gazing at Ken's masculine face, she knew it would never be like that with him. From the moment she had first seen his portrait in the library, she had felt a strong physical attraction. But was that enough to base a relationship on?
As if he were aware of what she was thinking, Ken let out a little sigh, and opened his eyes. "I was afraid you were just a dream," he said huskily.
Knowing how ragged she must look in her shabby clothes, with not so much as a comb to smooth her hair, she replied, "More like a nightmare, you mean."
Ken heard the catch in her throat and wondered again what tortured her soul. Struggling out of bed, he said, "Miss Davis . . . Amanda, why is it you question everything I say? Is your world so full of scoundrels you've learned not to trust?"
Kenneth seemed to tower over her in the tiny shack, and she retreated a few steps from his powerful presence. "You've got it all wrong, Captain."
Not willing to let her escape, Ken closed the distance between them. "I think we've gone beyond formalities. Call me Ken . .. please."
He was so close now, she had to tilt her head to look up at him, and the impact of all that male beauty had a powerful effect on her. Entranced, she exhaled his name in a soft whisper. "Ken."
Then, realizing she was acting like a lovestruck schoolgirl, she tried to break the spell. "There's been only one man in my life. John Stewart. My husband. A very kind and understanding man."
A sharp jab of jealousy stabbed at Ken, hurting more than the dull ache in his leg. "You have a husband? Then, by all that's holy, what are you doing here? Why aren't you with this kind and understanding man?"
"I told you what I was doing here, but you didn't want to listen!"
"To what? A fantastical tale that I haunted you in your bedroom? Where was your husband then, madam, hiding under the bed?"
Amanda struggled to keep from crying. "My husband was in his grave. He died two years ago."
Ken saw the pain etched on her face and wished he could recall his words. "I'm so sorry, I . . ."
"He took a bullet that was meant for me, but you probably won't believe that either."
Trying to calm her, he spoke in a soft voice. "It sounds as if you're the one who doesn't believe it."
"Very perceptive, Captain. How can I believe it when I had just asked him for a divorce? He died because he had nothing left to live for."
"If it makes it easier for you to think that . . ."
"Easier? You think it's easier to believe that?"
Still speaking softly, Ken answered, "I think it's easier to believe he thought so little of life that he could throw it away. His death wouldn't mean as much then, would it? Much harder to believe he loved you enough to make the ultimate sacrifice."
"Yes. It is hard to believe that. Could you have sacrificed yourself for Jennifer? Could anyone who cherished life do that?"
"I wish to God I had been given the choice. But, yes, I loved her enough to do that. If you don't understand that, then you've never experienced true love."
"True love? That only happens in fairy tales."
Ken took her hands in his and pressed them to his lips. "True love does exist. I pray you find that out someday."
Staring into fathomless green eyes, Amanda wanted to believe. If ever there was a man she wanted as her true love, it was Kenneth Campbell.
With her soft lips tantalizingly close, Ken was just a breath away from kissing her, when something in her eyes gave him pause. She was no flirtatious female playing coquettish games, then hiding behind feigned innocence to keep him at bay. This one would play for keeps. This one would settle for nothing less than marriage.
But there was no place in his life for a woman like her, no matter how appealing she was. When the war was over he would be a farmer again, and he needed a woman capable of living that kind of life. It was laughable to think of Amanda Davis in that role.
Ken wanted to take her in his arms, to erase her pain with a flurry of kisses, but instead he willed himself to pull his hands away. Feigning an aching leg, he made his way back to the bed and lay down. But it was his heart that truly hurt, when with a small sigh Amanda accepted defeat and left the shack that had grown too small to hold two beating hearts.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Amanda had waited in vain for Ken's kiss. Why had he changed his mind? Had she scared him away with her boldness? Did the women of the 1800s act so very differently than she? Well then, they were even, because no twentieth century man had ever made her feel the way Ken did. His pull was so powerful, so exquisite, she wanted nothing more than to be in his arms.
In need of finding something to occupy her restless soul, Amanda went out into the cold spring air. She couldn't stay closed up with Ken another minute. The thought of the long, dark night ahead filled her with dread, and for the first time in her life, she fully appreciated modern amenities like television and shelves full of books to read. There was absolutely nothing for her to do.
Hearing the horses restlessly snorting and stamping their hooves, Amanda was reminded that there was something she could do. The poor creatures were still saddled, still tied to a post, because she had been too afraid to unsaddle them. The very least she could do was feed them some hay. Remembering how upset Ken had been that she hadn't taken care of them, she liked the idea of finally doing something that would please him.
She had seen a bale of hay in back of the house. She would just bring it out front where the horses were. On second thought, it would be better to bring them around back, out of sight of anyone on the road. In these desperate times someone might be tempted to steal them.
Reminding herself that she had ridden the brown horse without being bitten or kicked, she gathered her courage and untied the reins of each animal, holding them in separate hands. She stayed as far away from them as she could, clicking her tongue at them, as she timidly tugged on the reins.
They responded with a slow, almost reluctant amble, and pleased with herself for handling such large animals, she very nervously started leading them around to the back of the house.
Then one of them, the dappled gray that Ken had ridden, came to a sudden stop, and tug as she might, she couldn't budge him. He seemed intent on reaching a patch of grass on the otherwise barren ground that surrounded the shack.
Realizing she should have taken the horses one at a time, she dropped Ghost Dancer's reins and placed a large rock over them to weigh them down. That should hold him until she got back. If he tried to wander off, the rock would keep him anchored. Leaving him munching contentedly on the grass, she led the more obedient brown horse around to the rear of the shack, then returned for the gray.
Rounding the corner she came to a halt.
Ghost Dancer was gone.
Oh, no. He couldn't be. He just couldn't. The captain would never forgive her.
A faint, rhythmic pounding caught her ear, and hoping desperately that it wasn't what she thought it was, she looked down the road in time to see the gray horse galloping down the hill. Oh, God, what was she going to do? No way was she going to tell the captain she had lost his horse. He already thought she was an incompetent. She could just imagine what he would think when he found out about this.
But . .. maybe, maybe, he wouldn't have to know that she was responsible. Maybe if she said nothing, feigned surprise when he discovered the horse missing, he would think the Yankees had stolen it.
She went back inside the shack and, unable to face Ken, put a pot of water on the fire. She would boil some potatoes tonight. At least she would be competent at that.
At the light touch of a hand on her shoulder, she jumped.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."
Feeling guilty and hating herself for being such a coward, Amanda attacked him with harsh words. "What do you want? Did you come over here to check on me? Well, let me relieve your mind; I'm not going to burn your supper tonight.''
Ken didn't blame her for being upset. He had been too hard on her, riding her about her inability to do simple domestic chores. "I know you won't burn my supper. I just wanted you to know that I appreciate your skill at healing. My leg is doing much better than I expected."
"Well, that's fine. I'm glad to hear it. Because that means you'll be able to get out of this terrible place soon."
Ken saw the tears that welled up in her eyes, and it came to him that it had to be hard on her, shut up in this tiny ramshackle place. He saw something else in her eyes, too, but he couldn't fathom what it was. If he didn't know better, he would suspect she felt guilty about something, because she had a hard time looking him in the eye. That hadn't been a problem before now.
"And what about you, Amanda? What are your plans?"
She looked him straight in the eye then. "I have no plans, no place to go. I really thought I'd be transported back to my own time by now. But it seems God isn't through with me yet."
"So God's to blame for your being here. Guess I best say my prayers every night, to thank Him."
"Don't make fun of me. I don't deserve that."
"Amanda, believe me, I wasn't makin' fun of you. I do thank God for you. And I can't bear to see you so troubled.  You don't have to worry about a place to live. I'll take care of you for as long as you need me."
Seeing how serious he was, Amanda reached up to caress his cheek. "You are an admirable man."
Ken caught her hand in his and raised it to his lips. "Your hands are such a gift. They have the power to heal. The power to comfort. But, they're not the soft hands of a privileged woman. They're callused and rough, as if they've seen hard work. And your clothes. What awful straits are you in that you must dress so poorly?"
"The only strait I'm in is being sent back to this time in a nightgown. Surely you remember I wasn't in rags at the battlefield?"
Her words jogged his memory, and an image flashed through his head of her running through the peach orchard. "I thought you were an angel in your flowing robe."
"Not a robe, a nightgown. Now do you believe I was transported here? Why would any sane woman wear a nightgown to a battlefield?"
"No sane woman would. That's the thing of it. Perhaps you have a brain fever."
"Why is it so hard to believe that I'm just as sane as you? That my actions are those of a woman from the twentieth century forced back to a time where everything is foreign to her? I stripped my nightgown to make a tourniquet for you and to bandage your wound. Does that sound like the act of a mad woman? As for these clothes, I found them in that trunk in the corner. I had to wear something, didn't I? For God's sake, Ken, I'm telling you the truth. Why won't you believe me?"
Fearing she was close to breaking, Ken answered soothingly, "Tell me what happened, and I promise I'll listen this time."
They sat in the dim candlelight while Amanda told him about the dig and the minié ball and seeing him as a ghost. She told him about the historical library and his portrait. When she came to the part about the letter in the secret compartment, he interrupted her.
"You almost had me convinced, but your story about a secret compartment under a floorboard is just not true. Why would you think I'd believe such an outlandish lie? Jennifer had no reason to hide anything from Rhoda, let alone me."
Amanda was stunned. "But you must know of a secret compartment. Why else would Jennifer write a letter to you, then hide it away, unless she knew you would check the hiding place when you returned from the war?"
"I'm telling you, she had no such place. So, it's useless to go on with your absurd story."
Amanda wanted to tell him so much more, but obviously this wasn't the time. He would never believe what she had to say about Rhoda in the mood he was in now. But, damn it all. She couldn't give up. She had to convince him that she was telling the truth. "For God's sake, Ken, there must be some part of my story that rings true to you."
"I'll concede that. I did have a portrait done, after I became a captain. But there's nothing unusual about that."

"Shall I tell you how you were posed?"
"If it pleases you."
"You were seated in a chair, facing the left, your hand resting on the hilt of your sword, your other hand in your lap."
"That's true, but it's a common enough pose. Was there anything about the portrait that stood out?"
"I thought it odd that you should have your fingers crossed on the hand that lay in your lap."
Ken looked at her in astonishment. "It was my sign to Emily. I told her that whenever she looked at my picture j      and saw my fingers crossed, it meant I was thinking of her that very moment."
Amanda's heart melted with those words. Emily was a very lucky little girl to have him for a father. "Do you believe me now?"
Ken was afraid if he told her what he was really thinking she would break. "You say in your time my house was turned into a . . . what did you call it? A bed and breakfast inn?"
"A lovely, haunted bed and breakfast inn." Speaking very softly, she asked again, "Answer me, do you believe my story now?"
Ken gazed at the beautiful woman who had saved his life, and wanted to believe her. But how could he? Although her knowledge of his portrait gave him reason to pause, still it could be explained away in a dozen different ways. She could have been to his house and seen the picture. That would explain how she knew his daughter's name, too. No, it was much easier to believe she was an accomplished liar who enjoyed telling fantastical stories, than to believe that people could travel through time. But she seemed to be in such a fragile state, he didn't have the heart to say no outright. "Give me time, Amanda. Give me time."
Amanda was hurt that he didn't readily believe her, but she understood and smiled at him reassuringly. "All right, but remember, time is very precious. There are things I haven't told you about yet. Things you can't begin to understand until you believe me."
The subject was dropped, and they chatted awhile longer. Ken did most of the talking, telling her stories about the happy days before the war began. Then his mood became more somber, and he told her about how he and his brother joined the Confederate army, and of the brave men under his command. They were mostly friends and neighbors, many of whom had never shot a rifle except when squirrel hunting. And it made Amanda realize all the more how heartbreaking the Civil War was.
He spoke to her as if he had known her all his life, and she almost felt it was true. There was a bond between them, forged by the trauma of the war and by their close confinement in this tiny slave shack. A bond she would never have believed possible just a day ago.
Her eyes drank him in as he spoke, never tiring of gazing at his form, his face, his large, expressive hands, and she shivered thinking of what they would feel like on her naked breasts.
Ken saw her trembling, and asked, "Are you cold? Of course you are in that flimsy clothing. Here, take my jacket. It'll warm you up."
She started to protest, but seeing how much he wanted to please her, gave in and let him wrap it around her shoulders. She shivered again, this time from the sudden warmth, and the special smell of him that hugged her in a cocoon of masculine scents. "Thank you. I didn't realize how cold I was till just now. Guess I've been too caught up in everything that's been happening."
"You've been a real soldier about this, Amanda. Not many ladies I know would have even stepped inside this shack."
Amanda yawned, suddenly feeling drowsy. "Mmm, guess I'm no lady. Where I come from women actually go off to war. But I think I'll save that story for another time."
Ken could see she was about to pass outfrom exhaustion, and gently nudging her out of the chair, he led her over to the bed.
Amanda was too tired to protest.
She drifted off to sleep listening to the music of his husky voice.
She awoke in the middle of the cold, black night. The wind was whisding through the large cracks in the walls, chilling her to the very bone, and she began to shiver. Ken pulled her tighter against him and rubbed her arms. "This is the last night in this awful place. We're leaving first thing in the morning."
"It's too soon. You'll bust your sutures open. Do you realize how many muscles and tendons are involved in riding a horse?"
"We're goin', and that's all there is to it. I won't have you sufferin' one more night here." His arms held her possessively, and she discovered that she liked it very much. After a lifetime of having to fend for herself, it was nice to feel protected.
She shivered again from the contrasting warmth against her back and frigid air on her front.
Feeling the goose bumps on her arms, Ken realized what was wrong, and murmured, "Here, cuddle up to me; my body heat will warm you in no time."
Oh, God, she was sure of that "No, it's all right. I'll be fine."
"If you're worried about being compromised, forget it. I promise not to take advantage of you."
"Th-th-th-ank you. I can't stop my body from shaking."
Amanda had more to worry about than her shakes when she rolled over to face Ken and he took her in his arms. She was still trembling, but now it was because of his close proximity. Her arms crept round his neck in an embrace, and a different kind of heat encompassed her. Oh, great, he was doing the chivalrous thing of trying to warm her, and all she could think about was jumping his bones.
She soon discovered she wasn't the only one aroused. She felt his hardness pressing against her pelvic area. Without even trying he had found exactly the right spot.
She tried to tell herself there was nothing sexual happening, but there was, oh, God, there was. Just the closeness of his body against hers was all it took to conjure up images of them locked together in lovemaking.
Ken told himself he would keep his emotions distant from her, but, sweet Jesus, that was easier said than done. Her soft body felt so good in his arms, it was as if she were made for him. "Are you getting warm yet?"
That was the understatement of the century, Amanda thought. "Yes, thank you, I'm getting very warm. What about you?"
"Don't believe I could stand to be any hotter, Angel. Don't believe I could."
Amanda smiled against his chest. It pleased her to know that Captain Kenneth Campbell was human after all.
But she soon learned that when Kenneth Campbell promised not to take advantage of a girl, he kept his promise. That became very clear several minutes later when he hadn't so much as tried to kiss her. She tried to make excuses, thinking he was still weak from losing so much blood, or that his leg hurt too much, or that it was too damn cold, but deep down she knew it was more than that.
Maybe getting together with a man from a different time was impossible. But that seemed silly. It wasn't as if he were still in a misty, ghostly form. No way. She could feel his undeniable firmness pressing into her. There wasn't any physical reason why they couldn't be together.
That left but two possibilities. Either Kenneth Campbell was too honorable a man to make advances to a woman without benefit of marriage, or else he just didn't think it was worth getting involved with her. A third possibility came to her then, one she was sorry she had thought of; but there it was floating around in her brain, and she had to acknowledge it. Maybe he didn't want to get involved with her because he was in love with another woman.
It was certainly possible. His wife had been dead two years by now, and every eligible girl in the state of Tennessee must have set her cap for him.
Had she traveled through time to meet the one man she was capable of loving, only to discover he could never feel that same way about her?
It seemed God wasn't finished playing jokes on her.
CHAPTER NINE
Keeping Amanda warm was turning out to be agony. Her soft body enticed him in ways that he could never have imagined before. Why did she have to be so blasted appealing? He had vowed not to have anything to do with her, but oh, God, how he wanted to recant that pledge.
It was true she knew nothing about taking care of a house, or a horse, or a hundred other things probably; but he was sure she would more than make up for her failings in other, more pleasurable ways, and in the state he was in, nothing else mattered.
Giving in to a craving too great to be denied, he tentatively lifted his hand to stroke her soft cheek and leaned forward to kiss her. The sound of deep, steady breathing halted him. She was asleep. Damn! While he had been agonizing over the lovely creature who shared his bed, she had been having no trouble falling asleep. He prayed sleep would claim him, too.
******************
The rooster woke him, as it had the day before, but this time Amanda slept right through it. Ken realized how exhausted she must be. They had both been through a lot. But that would end today. He would take her home with him. Though he was far from wealthy, he certainly had a comfortable home, and a slave or two to see to her needs.
Not wanting to take any chances on an argument from her, he decided to prove to her he was not an invalid. That he could make it the few short miles to his home. Quietly, he left the shack in search of the horses. He would saddle them and have them waiting so that when she woke up, they could leave immediately. They could be at his home in time for a leisurely late breakfast.
He stepped outside and stretched, enjoying the cool, invigorating air. Early morning had always been his favorite time of day. Glancing around, he was surprised to see that the animals weren't out front, and he set off to find them. There was no barn on the property, so he suspected they were tied somewhere in the back.
Rounding the corner of the shack, he saw the brown horse tied to a tree, still saddled. Slightly irritated at Amanda's thoughtlessness, he looked around for Ghost Dancer, but couldn't find him anywhere.
What the hell had she done with him?
Striding back inside, he went over to the bed and jiggled her shoulder until she woke up.
Through a fog, Amanda heard Ken ask about Ghost Dancer. If there had been a pillow on the bed, she would have buried her head under it, but there was nowhere to hide from his wrath. She thought about lying to him, but decided instead to own up to what she had done. If there was any chance of a relationship with him, she didn't want it to be based on lies.
"I . . . oh, Ken, I'm so sorry. Your horse ran away from me last night, and I was afraid to tell you, for fear you'd do something rash."
A myriad of emotions washed over Ken, but the most predominant one was an ache in his heart. The pain grew until he was compelled to dissipate it by smashing his fist into the wall. Damn her to hell. Ghost Dancer could never be replaced. Holding his aching hand at his side, he strode outside.
Amanda watched wide-eyed, knowing it was her he really wanted to hit, and she almost wished he had. Maybe then she wouldn't feel so sorry for him. But she did. It was obvious how much he loved that animal. What was wrong with her anyway? She hadn't been herself since she had been swept back in time. Obviously, she didn't belong here. She would never belong here. She was just fooling herself thinking Ken could be a part of her life. He would hate her forever now, knowing that because of her he had lost his beloved horse.
Not knowing what else to do, she followed him outside and found him furiously grooming the brown horse. The sight was too much for her. How could she ever face him again? She started walking, hoping the beautiful spring morning would cheer her.
What started as an aimless stroll, soon turned into a desperate measure to put distance between herself and Ken, and she walked faster and faster, heading down the hill toward the only place she knew, the battlefield. She had been transported there from her time, and if she was right, it was the very place where she could be transported back.
As she drew closer to the peach orchard, she was shocked to encounter other people. In that tiny shack she had felt like she and Ken were the only ones who inhabited the earth. How could she have forgotten for one moment the horror that had transpired here?
An elderly man stepped in front of her and, touching her gently on the arm, said, "I wouldn't go any farther if'n I was you. They're still buryin' the dead. I tried to find my son, but they wouldn't let me. Told me to go home. How can I? How can I?"
Amanda tried to comfort him. "Maybe he's not there, sir. Maybe he survived the battle. I saw a whole column of soldiers marching up that hill. Maybe your son is with them."
The old man looked at her sympathetically. She could tell he didn't believe her for a second, but he pretended to, and patted her hand, then stared into the orchard as if in a daze.
She wished she could ease his pain, but dared not even try for fear she would break down completely. Continuing on her way, she finally arrived at the wooden rail fence that marked the orchard's boundaries. The sight that greeted her was much worse than she expected. It was too heartbreaking to bear. After two days of battle and twenty-three thousand dead, the orchard was deathly still, except for the sounds of shovels digging in the damp earth.
Where once bales of hay marked the field, now earthen mounds dotted the landscape. Rows of dead soldiers, both Blue and Gray, lay in grotesque positions, waiting to be buried. Rough boards stuck into the mounds of mass graves were crudely scribbled on, listing the number of dead buried there and whether they were Rebel or Yankee. Even in death they were divided.
The strains of "Nearer My God to Thee" drifted to her on the wind, and she didn't know whether she was imagining it, whether it was coming from the rugged Shiloh church made from logs, or whether some ghostly choir was paying homage to the brave dead.
She said a prayer of her own; then, eager to leave the terrible sight behind, Amanda made her way over to the spot where she had first appeared. The team of grim-faced soldiers digging graves looked at her with glazed eyes, then went back to their sad chore, shaking their heads to see a woman in such a place.
With Ken's face haunting her, she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to concentrate on the room that had been her home for the past few months, but the image of Kenneth kept getting in her way. "Damn it all, will you haunt me the rest of my life?"
Precious minutes went by as she tried hard to escape her pain, escape Kenneth Campbell and all that he stood for. But no matter how hard she tried to return to her own time, she swore she could hear him calling her back.
Feeling a hand on her shoulder, she thought it was one of the grave diggers and opened her eyes to confront him. She was jolted to see Ken standing there instead. Gazing at his wonderful face her heart broke in two. Oh, God, how could she bear never to see this beautiful man again?
"How did you find me?"
"It wasn't hard. I just went to the spot no woman in her right mind would ever go to, and, of course, here you are."
Amanda choked back her disappointment. Why couldn't he feel the way she did? Why couldn't he take her in his arms and hold her? Didn't he know how much she needed that? "So, you still think I'm crazy. Well then, fine, go home and leave me alone. I don't need you. I don't need anyone."
In a voice so low she barely heard it, he murmured, "But I need you."
She blinked her eyes in disbelief. "What? What did you say?"
"Oh, God, Amanda, when I realized you had gone, the thought of never seeing you again was unbearable."
Amanda's eyes filled with tears. "How could you want me after I lost the horse that meant so much to you? Oh, Ken, I'm so very sorry."
"I know you are. And I'm sorry you were so afraid to tell me. I wouldn't have harmed you, Amanda. I could never hurt you."
Overwhelmed with emotion, Amanda stepped into the shelter of his offered arms, and knew that she was home. Wherever Ken was, that's where she wanted to be. Was there still a chance for them?
Locked in each other's arms at the very place they first met, Amanda and Ken drew comfort from the touch of one another, both realizing what a miracle it was to find love in the middle of the saddest place on earth.
With a strength he didn't know he had, Ken lifted her off the ground and, with her cradled in his arms, made his way off the killing field, the pain in his leg all but forgotten. In silent reverence he set her on the brown horse, and in a moment they were riding away, toward his home, toward his daughter, and toward a new beginning.
CHAPTER TEN
By the time Ken made it to his farm, his leg was hurting unbearably. Much as he hated to admit it, Amanda was right; he shouldn't have been riding so soon. But the thought of Amanda, or any decent female for that matter, suffering another night in that shack had hardened his resolve.
Rounding the last bend in the road, he was about to point out his home when Amanda let out a little cry. "That's the bed and breakfast inn. Oh, Ken, it is the same house. That's where I lived in my own century. Go ahead and ask me anything about the place. I know the layout well."
Ken was too glad to be home to argue, and knowing she wasn't about to give up, he gave in to her. "Very well, describe the wallpaper in the parlor."
Amanda's heart sank. "That's not fair. No house would have the same wallpaper after more than a hundred years. Ask me something else."
"Then, tell me how many bedrooms there are."
Amanda counted them in her head before answering. "Six."
"Six?" Take a good look at that house. Does it look like a mansion to you?"
"But I know there are six."
"Four. There are only four bedrooms."
"Then, somewhere along the line, someone did some remodeling and added a couple of bedrooms, because I'm telling you there were six bedrooms in nineteen ninety-nine."
Ken shook his head. "Don't you see how pointless this is? There's no use going on with this."
Afraid of burying herself any deeper, Amanda shut up. She couldn't help but be hurt that he could shrug it off so easily. But she wasn't about to give up. She would find a way to convince him that she was telling the truth.
Ken helped her off the horse, then took her arm and led her inside the house. Her heart beat wildly as he led her down the long central hall. The house looked much different than when she lived in it. The decor wasn't half as nice as she remembered, and the furniture now was functional but not nearly as stylish. How strange to see it as it was—is—in the nineteenth century.
"Emily, where are you? Daddy's home." Ken strode right by a tiny, darkened room off the parlor, but something told Amanda to look inside. A small child was sitting on a stool in a dark corner.
"Ken, she's here."
Amanda let Ken enter the room first, afraid of scaring Emily. She watched as he scooped her up in his arms and held her close. "It's all right. Daddy's here."
The child looked over her father's shoulder, her eyes growing large with fear. Amanda realized with a start that it wasn't her the child was staring at, but someone standing behind her in the doorway. Spinning around, Amanda gazed into the cold, dark eyes of Aunt Rhoda.
Knowing what she did of the woman, Amanda expected her to look stern and mean-faced, but instead Rhoda was tall and willowy with striking good looks. In fact, she looked a lot like Sigourney Weaver, a movie star she had always admired.
But she could never admire this evil woman. If what Jennifer wrote was true, Rhoda had poisoned her and was preparing to murder her daughter, too.
Rhoda seemed just as interested in her, looking her up and down as if she were a disgusting insect. Amanda became very conscious of the rags she was wearing. Wilting under the assertive gaze, she stepped aside. When Ken came into Rhoda's line of vision, the woman's demeanor changed to that of a loving and concerned friend.
"Ken. Dear, dear Ken, I can't tell you how happy I am to see you. Word was sent to me that you were wounded, and I was beside myself with worry. I don't understand why you didn't come straight here."
Ken embraced her warmly, then clearing his throat, said, "It's only because of my special Angel of Shiloh that I'm here at all. Miss Rhoda Gantry, meet Miss Amanda Davis, the angel that saved my life."
Emily's eyes grew large and round at the mention of an angel, and Amanda winked at the little girl, who now looked at her as if she were about to sprout wings.
Rhoda just stood there frozen until Ken spoke again. "Miss Davis will be staying with us for a spell, so I want you to be sure and make her feel right at home, Rhoda. This young lady has been through a terrible time, and I mean to make it up to her."
Rhoda started to say something, and then decided against it. Pursing her lips together, she turned and left. Immediately the room seemed brighter.
Ken kissed his daughter on the cheek, then set her back down on the floor. "Emily, I want you to say hello to my new friend, Miss Amanda. I'm sure she will be your dear friend, too, in no time at all."
Emily lowered her head, and shyly said, "Hello."
"Hello, Emily, what a pretty little girl you are."
Emily responded by gazing up at her wistfully, and Amanda saw how pale and gaunt her face was. She looked as if she had suffered a great illness. She couldn't help wondering if Rhoda was slowly poisoning her already. Trying to sound lighthearted, she asked, "I wonder why you were sitting in here when it's such a beautiful spring day outside."
A cloud came over Emily's face, and Amanda's heart went out to her. She felt a strong desire to protect the little girl.
It was indeed strange for his daughter to be sitting so quiedy, Ken thought. "Yes, sweetheart, why are you in here?"
Rhoda reentered the room just then, startling them all. "Because, Kenneth, she was a very wicked child and was being punished."
Ken laughed nervously. "And just what wicked thing could an innocent five-year-old be doing?"
" She spat at me, that's what You can' t imagine the abuse I've had to endure from her. She's a willful child, and for her own sake, I mean to see that she mends her ways."
"Emily, is this true? Did you spit at your aunt Rhoda?"
Tears welled up in the little girl's eyes, and Amanda couldn't bear it a moment longer. "Ken, I don't believe this is the time. Emily needs love and assurance from you right now. Let's make this a happy homecoming."
Ken smiled gratefully at her, and she realized he had been as uncomfortable as she over Rhoda's harsh treatment of his daughter. Hugging Emily tight, he said, "Come, let's get something to eat. I'm starved. Rhoda, I promised Amanda a leisurely breakfast. Would you see to it right away? Flapjacks and sausage would be mighty tasty.''
Rhoda left without answering, but the look on her face told Amanda she didn't like to be ordered around. How could this awful woman be related to Jennifer?
Gesturing to Amanda, Ken said, "Come. I'm going to find you something to wear. I can't bear seeing you in rags another moment."
Amanda didn't have to be told twice. She was sick of looking like the little match girl. Maybe with decent clothes on, she would garner more respect. She followed him out of the room and up a narrow staircase near the kitchen, the same staircase she had climbed daily. At least that hadn't changed. And she soon realized he was taking her to the same room she had called her own for the past few months.
He opened the door and waited for her to enter, then followed her in with Emily bringing up the rear. "This was my wife's room. There's a little sitting room that separates it from my own bedroom."
"You had separate bedrooms?"
"She was ill for so long, the doctor thought it best."
"It must have been terrible seeing her waste away."
The muscle in his cheek started dancing, and she knew he was tense.
"Fact is, I didn't. I wasn't here for the worst part of her illness. I was off in secret meetings with Jefferson Davis. You see, after I saved his life, he trusted me, and wanted me close. He actually valued my opinion on matters dealing with the Southern states. This was before the war, mind you. Jennifer thought I should go, thinking it was a chance in a lifetime to make something of myself. But I swear to you if I had known she was dying, I would have stayed."
"Ken, you mustn't feel guilty. You had no way of knowing."
"I console myself with that. No one knew how bad she was, not even Rhoda, who was with her every day. Rhoda wrote to me often telling me there was no change in Jennifer, and I was reassured. But then, it was convenient for me to believe that, wasn't it? That way I got to go on with my life without worrying about my wife."
"Ken, you're being too hard on yourself. If you want to blame someone, blame Rhoda for not telling you the truth." She could be blamed for much more than that, but it was useless to try and tell Ken that. He refused to believe anything Amanda had to stay. But he would have to believe her when she found the secret hiding place and Jennifer's letter hidden there.
"I was going to find something for you to wear," Ken said, changing the subject. "The armoire in the corner. My wife's clothing should be in it. Feel free to help yourself to anything that fits you."
Amanda reached out to touch Ken's arm. "Are you sure? I don't want the sight of me in your wife's clothing to cause you any sorrow."
"That could never happen. The two of you are as different as night and day." Then afraid she took his statement the wrong way, he went on, "What I mean is, you could never remind me of Jennifer because your looks are so different, not to mention your temperament. Believe me, I'm pleased to put her wardrobe to good use."
"What about Rhoda? I would imagine she'd like them for herself."
Ken smiled wryly. "Jennifer and Rhoda had entirely different tastes in clothes."
After Ken and Emily left, Amanda sorted through the gowns in the armoire and understood perfectly what Ken had meant about the difference in tastes. The armoire was filled with dresses of pretty, feminine colors, a marked difference from Rhoda's dark navy blue. Amanda picked out a mauve-and-white-checked day dress trimmed with lace. She discovered the bodice was separate from the skirt, which made it easier to put on.
However, she soon discovered she was going to need help dressing. The fitted bodice had a long row of hook and eyes at the back that made it impossible to do herself, unless she was a contortionist. Why in the world did nineteenth century women put up with such nuisances?
A light rap sounded on the door, and she opened it to find a black girl of around thirteen or fourteen standing there with a bucket of hot water. "I's Alvira. Mastah told me to draw you a bath and help you dress."
Amanda couldn't keep from staring at the girl. Nothing in her life had prepared her for coming face-to-face with a slave. Realizing she was making the girl uncomfortable, she smiled and said, "Please come in."
Alvira proceeded to fill a large wooden tub hidden behind a folding screen, making several trips to do so, and Amanda was reminded of the hard life slaves lived. She felt guilty at the great relief she experienced when she sank into the steaming water and got rid of the dirt and grime she had accumulated over the past few days.
Feeling refreshed and more civilized, she was soon snugly ensconced in the dress, grateful to be blessed with a wasp waist, else the bodice would never fit without a corset of some sort. But she drew the line at wearing one of those contraptions, determined to keep a small part of her twentieth century independence.
When Alvira had gone, Amanda gazed into the mirror and was pleased with what she saw. It was good to feel presentable again. Dressed properly for the nineteenth century also gave her some well needed self-confidence to face Rhoda.
Hearing a knock on the door, Amanda's heart began to flutter with anticipation. What would Ken think when he saw her dressed in his wife's clothing? "Come in."
Ken opened the door, with Emily in his arms. He almost didn't recognize the vision in pink as Amanda, and his heart practically jumped out of his chest at the beautiful picture she presented. "My God, I knew I'd find an attractive girl under those rags, but this is incredible. You're exquisite. A real-life angel."
"I'm glad you approve, Captain."
Emily reached out for her then, and Amanda took her from her father's arms. Immediately, Emily circled her neck with her small arms and held on tight. Then, in a small, sweet voice, she whispered in Amanda's ear, "Are you my angel, too?"
With tears in her eyes, Amanda whispered back, "Yes." If ever a child needed a guardian angel, it was Emily.
Ken beamed at the lovely, maternal sight. Looking at the two of them, one would think that they were mother and daughter, so well did they complement each other. With their heads together, he could see that the color of their hair was the same, too, making them look all the more perfecdy matched.
Amanda set Emily on the floor. "Shall we go down to breakfast? The smell of sausages is driving me mad."
Emily nodded her little head, and Amanda started down the stairs with the little girl walking close beside her. At the bottom of the stairs, they saw Rhoda approach, and Emily suddenly hid behind Amanda's voluminous skirt.
Amanda reached down to pull Emily up into her arms and, in a low voice, said, "Don't worry, Emily, I'm here now. Your aunt Rhoda can't hurt you anymore."
Pressed tight against Amanda's chest, the child's body gave out a deep sigh, and Amanda knew she had suffered at Rhoda's hands. The helpless little thing needed a protector for sure, and she was volunteering for the position. Rhoda was every bit the monster poor Jennifer had described in her letter. She would talk with Ken in private later. For Emily's sake, he had to believe her.
Meanwhile she would keep her cool. She would smile and exchange pleasantries with the woman, so that Rhoda wouldn't suspect anything, and when she was alone, she would search for the letter. How difficult could it be to find a secret compartment under a floorboard?
"I'll take my little girl now. Come to Mama, Emily."
Emily buried her head in Amanda's shoulder.
Ken was puzzled by Emily's reaction, even more puzzled by Rhoda's words. "Does she call you Mama now?"
"Don't act so surprised, Ken. You know Jennifer wanted me to raise Emily as if she were mine. You know it was her last wish that you and I marry so that the poor sweet thing would have a proper family."
Amanda stared in horror at the evil woman. She was lying. Couldn't Ken see that? My God, the thought of her as Emily's mother or Ken's wife was unbearable.
She turned to look at Ken, waiting for him to put Rhoda in her place, waiting to hear that such an abomination could never happen. Maybe even that it was Amanda he wanted to marry, not that wicked woman.
But Ken said nothing.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Rhoda displayed a victory smile for Amanda's benefit, and oh, how she wanted to slap it off the woman's smug face. It was obvious Rhoda felt she was in competition for Ken's affection, and Amanda was determined to win. She forced a smile to her face so Rhoda wouldn't know how devastated she really was.
How could he be so blind? Didn't he see how frightened Emily was of her aunt? Trying to keep her cool, she said, "Lead me to that delicious-smelling food. Ken and I have been literally starving the past few days."
The smile slipped from Rhoda's face at the linking of Ken's name with Amanda's, and Amanda enjoyed her own small victory. At least the woman wasn't overly sure of herself when it came to Ken. She hoped that meant that they hadn't become lovers yet.
But after Ken's strange silence, she wasn't sure of anything anymore. She tried to look at Rhoda as a man would, to see what might be appealing about her, but now all she could see was Sigourney Weaver's evil twin sister.
Ken laughed, then, and for a moment Amanda feared he was reading her mind; but of course, he would have no idea who Sigourney Weaver was, so he had to be reacting to her spoken words instead.
"Amanda's right about us starving. I'm ready for a decent meal."
Ken led the way to the kitchen, and held a chair out for Amanda. She sank into it, then helped Emily into the seat next to hers.
Rhoda's icy glare took in the woman and child. "Emily, come sit next to me, so I can attend to you while you eat."
Panic flickered across Emily's face, then hardened into a stubborn determination. "No."
Her act of defiance brought a scowl to Rhoda's face, and Amanda reached under the table to squeeze Emily's hand reassuringly.
Ken noticed the interplay at the table and was confounded by what was going on, but he couldn't help but feel pleased that Emily took to Amanda so easily. Was it a sign that this beautiful, crazy woman was exactly what Emily needed?
Crazy. That word gave him pause. How could he put his innocent child in her unstable hands? How could he trust his daughter to someone so inept at everything she tried? And yet, Emily had reached out to Amanda as if she were a trusted relative, and that had to count for something, didn't it? Confound it, when it came to females, he felt as if he were in uncharted territory.
"Do you see what I've had to put up with? Willful child."
Again the muscle in Ken's cheek twitched, and Amanda knew he was getting angry with Rhoda. But she took no comfort in that, since he got angry with her just as easily.
"It's all right, pumpkin," Ken said, forcing a light tone, "you can sit by Miss Amanda. I'm sure it will make her feel more welcome."
After the meal was finished, and Ken was seeing to the horse, Rhoda promptly disappeared to her room. That was fine with Amanda. She was pleased to have time alone with Emily. Taking the child by the hand, Amanda led her outside to join Ken. With Emily swinging on the hitching post, and Amanda leaning against it, they watched as Ken groomed and watered the animal.
Amanda wished it were Ghost Dancer he was so carefully grooming, and felt sorrow that she should be the reason he no longer had his beautiful horse.
Amanda hated the thought of facing Rhoda again, so when Ken was finished, she suggested the three of them go for a walk. He seemed surprised by her request, but agreed, especially when Emily chirped in enthusiastically.
They strolled down a path that led to a pasture, and Emily ran ahead and began to pick a bouquet of wild-flowers. Amanda joined in, using the fullness of her checkered skirt to carry them while Ken sat under a tree relaxing.
The sight of the girl and woman frolicking together was a blessing to his eyes. They looked so good together, so happy and carefree.
They skipped over to where he sat, and he could tell by the impish expressions on their faces that they were up to something. He found out soon enough when Amanda suddenly dumped the contents of her skirt all over him. Emily laughed gaily, almost falling into his lap, but with a suddenly sober expression, Amanda rescued his injured leg from his daughter's attack.
Amanda gazed down at him with concern showing on her face, and he laughed. "No harm done. I'm not an invalid, you know."
He tossed a flower at Amanda, and it landed in the cleavage of her low-cut gown.
She reacted with a blush brighter than the pink of her gown, and it looked so becoming on her, he wanted to capture that look forever in his heart.
Emily skipped away, lost in her child's world of imagination, and he reached out a hand, saying, "Think you can help me up?"
Surprised the mighty warrior would ask for help, Amanda eagerly took his hand and started tugging; but Ken tugged back, and before she knew it she was in his lap. "Oh, don't. Your leg. I don't want to injure it."
Ken set her down on his good leg and, pulling her against his chest, did what his heart compelled: he kissed her passionately.
Lost in the pure pleasure of the moment, Amanda wanted it to go on and on. But that wasn't to be, for Emily chose that moment to come running back with another armful of flowers which she rained over the kissing couple.
Seeing Amanda's hair adorned with flowers of every hue, Ken drank in the beautiful vision, and though he dared not say the words out loud, his heart whispered, "I love you." Stunned, he realized it was true. He did love her.
Jumping out of his lap, Amanda took him by one hand and Emily by the other, and they pulled him to his feet. He enveloped them in an embrace, and held on, savoring this wonderful moment of revelation.
But the fragile moment was shattered when Rhoda appeared at the edge of the meadow. Feeling like children caught doing something naughty, Ken and Amanda straightened their clothing, brushing the last of the clinging blossoms to the ground.
They never found out what Rhoda wanted because she left as suddenly as she had come without speaking a word. Amanda wondered whether she had seen Ken kiss her. She shivered suddenly, and Ken put his arm around her. "It's all right, Angel. We haven't done anything wrong."
Amanda thought it strange that he should say that, but it made her realize just how sensitive he was to her feelings. A couple days ago, she would never have suspected there was anything remotely sensitive about him. The more she got to know him, though, the more she discovered wonderful things about him. Each day was like opening up a new present; she never knew what she would get, but it was always something delightful.
After supper that night, Amanda sat in the parlor studying Rhoda, trying to see through her cool facade to the secrets that lay in her heart. But Rhoda was not an easy study. She rarely spoke, and her body language was stiff and formal as if she was trying very hard to hold herself together. Jennifer seemed to have been just the opposite, a warm, delightful woman with an easy smile and soft demeanor.
When it was Emily's bedtime, Amanda carried a vase full of colorful flowers to the girl's room, the same flowers they had gathered in the meadow. "There, that will brighten up your room." Placing the vase on a table by the window, she joined Ken to tuck the little girl in for the night.
Emily gazed with pride at the flowers she had picked, then declared in a matter-of-fact way, "Mommy will enjoy them when she visits. Please leave a candle burning so she can see how beautiful they are."
Ken and Amanda exchanged startled looks.
"Aunt Rhoda says that I just imagine Mommy's visits because I miss her, but it's not true. Mommy does come to see me whenever I need her the most."
Amanda sat on the edge of Emily's bed and brushed back the hair from Emily's eyes. "You must miss your mommy very much."
Emily nodded her head. "And I miss the bedtime stories she used to tell me, too. She knew lots and lots of them."
"Would you like me to tell you a bedtime story?"
"Oh, yes, please."
Amanda remembered a story she had made up when she was a small child frightened of the night, and she proceeded to recite it. Itwas a tale of princesses and castles, and of a handsome prince, and of a lucky little girl who was loved by all. When she was done, she leaned over to kiss Emily good night, and the little girl hugged her tight around the neck, holding on as if she were a lifeline.
Whispering in her ear, Emily said, "I wish that you were that princess, and daddy the prince, and you took care of me and loved me like the little girl in your story."
Amanda gazed at Ken with an ache in her heart. "Sometimes wishes do come true. We'll see what we can do."
Emily smiled, and then drifted off to sleep. Taking Amanda by the hand, Ken led her out of the room. "You're wonderful with her. I haven't seen her so happy since before her mother died."
"She's a terrific little girl. You should be very proud of her."
"What did she whisper in your ear?"
"Sorry, it's a secret between us girls."
"That's not fair. The two of you outnumber me."
"Oh, yeah? Well, you're bigger than us, so that makes us even."
Ken walked her to her room, and Amanda decided the time was right to try to talk to him again. "Please come in, Ken, there's something I want to say to you in private."
Ken sensed her shift in mood, and he knew what was coming would not be to his liking. But he followed her into the room and closed the door. "What is it?"
"I think you know already; I can tell by the look on your face. It's about the letter your wife wrote. You didn't let me finish what I was saying before. Ken, you desperately need to know the content of that letter; Emily's life depends on it."
Ken wished she would stop. Wished she was still the sweet, lighthearted girl who had delighted him so in the meadow. He didn't want to be reminded that there was a crazy side to her. "If you must."
"Ken, in the letter Jennifer pleaded with you never to let her evil sister Rhoda raise Emily."
"That doesn't sound like Jennifer. Why would she say that about her own sister?"
"Because she knew Rhoda was poisoning her, and she feared she would poison Emily, too. I know how hard that must be to believe, but her motive is a common one, greed. You named Rhoda in your will. She will inherit the farm if Emily and Jennifer are out of the picture."
"Stop it. Don't go on with your ugly lies. I don't know what you think you have to gain by telling such a tale, but it's lost on my ears. It just so happens, Rhoda is a wealthy woman in her own right. Her husband left her a great deal of property. So, you see your tale of greed just doesn't make any sense. I could no more believe Rhoda would harm Jennifer and Emily than I could believe it of myself."
"But it's easy enough for you to believe I'm a crazy woman, or, or, a liar. Well, then let me prove I'm telling the truth. The secret compartment has to be under one of the boards in this very room. How hard can it be to find it?"
"I can't believe you'd go this far with your lies."
"What's the matter, Ken. Are you afraid to look?"
It was very clear that there was only one way to put an end to her ridiculous notions. Feeling like a fool, he got down on his hands and knees and began pushing on the floorboards, looking for one that was loose.
Amanda watched him in a state of numbness. Learning that Rhoda had no motive to kill her sister really threw her. She had never actually read the letter herself, but had taken the word of the librarian. Perhaps the woman had exaggerated, or even made up the whole story of intrigue and murder.
But, remembering Emily's fear of her aunt, she had to believe it was true. There had to be a secret hiding place. That was the only thing that made sense. She would find it; then Ken would know the truth.
Amanda joined in on the search, starting at the other end of the room. She worked feverishly, hoping against hope that she would find what she was looking for. Jennifer had been too ill to walk very far; she had to have hidden the letter close to her bed. But a few minutes later, she knew she was wrong. There were no loose boards. Despondent, and unable to face him once again, she threw herself on the bed and buried her face in a pillow.
"For God's sake, don't take it so hard," Ken said. "I told you I'd take care of you no matter what, and—"
Infuriated, Amanda threw the pillow at him. Is that what he thought this was all about? That she was only thinking of herself? Damn him! "I don't need you to take care of me. What I need is for you to believe me. Don't you see, Rhoda will send me away as soon as you're married, and then who will protect Emily from her? Certainly not you, because you're blind to the truth."
Ken didn't know how to answer her. Nothing was the way he had thought it would be. He had had his future all mapped out for him until Amanda had showed up. He would survive the war, come home and marry Rhoda. That's what Jennifer's last wishes were.
But were they her wishes? He only had Rhoda's word for that. But doubting her was ridiculous. Why would she lie to him about it? It seemed like a natural request by his wife. Rhoda had lived with them almost since Emily was born, taking over the running of the household immediately after, since Jennifer had never gotten her strength back after the birth.
It was true that he didn't love Rhoda, but Emily's happiness was all that mattered. Marrying her would keep their small family intact. Or, at least that was what he had thought before Amanda. Seeing her with Emily, he couldn't help thinking how perfect they seemed for each other. So perfect, he now questioned whether Rhoda was the right person to raise his headstrong daughter.
Amanda waited for Ken to answer.
"Go to sleep. We'll talk more about this when you're calmer."
In a moment she was alone in the room, and the sobs she had held back so long burst forth. When she could cry no longer, she lay quiedy on the bed replaying everything that had happened over and over in her head. She had never been able to sleep in a strange bed, and tonight was no different. She tossed and turned for what seemed like hours, torn between anger and hurt over Ken's lack of understanding, and commitment.
He had shown her in every way that he loved her, and yet he was still considering marrying that witch. How could he believe her lies so easily? Had Jennifer been such a paragon of virtue that he couldn't believe ill of any woman? Any woman but her, that is.
In time, he would come to know the truth; of that she was sure. But would it be at Emily's expense? That child was terrified of Rhoda and needed to be removed from her control as soon as possible. It drove her crazy to think of what that poor child had been subjected to.
Throwing off the covers, Amanda decided to check on Emily and make sure she was sleeping all right. Tiptoeing out of her room, she made her way down the hall, fearing that every creak of the wooden floor beneath her would wake the child.
Entering Emily's room, the faint scent of lavender greeted her. That was strange; she hadn't noticed it when she tucked Emily in for the night. Alert, her gaze searched the room, seeking anything out of place. The dying candle sputtered on the table, causing strange shadows to dance on the wall beside Emily's bed.
One shadow separated from the others, and as Amanda drew closer, she saw it was the image of a woman gazing down at the sleeping child. But unlike the gray, ghostly form of Ken, this specter was made of faint white light. A moon maiden, shimmering and glistening. The image of a woman emanating pure love.
Amanda drew in her breath. There was no doubt in her mind that the shadow of light was Jennifer, Emily's mother. Tears quickly welled in her eyes as she stared at the beautiful sight. It seemed she wasn't the only one who attracted ghosts. Emily attracted ghosts, too, and what better one to be visited by than her own mother.
Emily had been right all along. Her mother did visit her. In all the terrible months when Emily had been alone with Rhoda, her mother had come to comfort her. Jennifer's maternal love was so powerful, so strong, it reached beyond the grave.
Speaking softly, Amanda called out, 'Jennifer."
The woman of light turned to look at her, a loving smile upon her pale face. Then, before Amanda's eyes, the image began to fade away along with the last flicker of candlelight. In the sudden darkness that surrounded her, Amanda whispered, "I'll take care of Emily now. I promise you."
CHAPTER TWELVE
When morning came, Amanda awoke to find herself in Emily's bed, and the memory of Jennifer's midnight visit came back to her in a rush. She wanted to share Jennifer's visit with Ken, but knew he would never believe her. She was afraid it would just confirm his suspicion that she was afflicted with brain fever. But someday, someday, he would know the truth. She prayed it wouldn't be too late.
With Jennifer's ghost still on her mind, Amanda dressed in a pale yellow dress embroidered with white flowers, then ran down the stairs in time to see another ghost pass by the parlor window. Ghost Dancer!
Running outside to the porch, she saw that the big gray horse was tied to the rear of a wagon driven by two large redheaded men. "Mornin', ma'am. We've come to return Ken's horse. Found him high-stepping his way down the road big as you please."
Ken joined her on the porch, shouting, "Well, I'll be damned. Never thought I'd see Ghost Dancer again. I thought them Yankees would be riding him into the earth by now."
"Almost did, I suspect. We found a tattered Yankee flag attached to his saddle. I'm guessing he gave them Yankees a real bad time. Them Northern boys never did know how to ride worth a damn."
Ken laughed, then circled his horse, inspecting him. "He's roughed up a bit, but nothing serious. Couple of days in the meadow with some mares and he'll be right as rain. Thanks for bringing him back to me, Mack, John Roy."
"Well, we had another reason to come as well," the older one said. "Martha wanted me to ask you all to a get-together at our place. Our youngest is going off to war, and we want to send him off with a good time."
Ken tried to sound of good cheer, but the thought of young Clayton going off to fight was hard to take. Seemed like just yesterday the boy was no taller than a grasshopper. "We'd be honored. Thank you, Mack, you tell Martha we'll be there soon as I've seen to this ole war horse of mine, and the ladies can git fixed up. You know how long that can take."
Mack laughed. "Sure do. Well, good enough, I'll just head back now. Good to see you home safe from the war, Ken." Gesturing at Amanda, he added, "And look what you brung with you; you must be the luckiest son of a gun in Tennessee."
Ken grinned and gazed over at Amanda on the porch. She looked like a yellow and white confection, good enough to eat in that pretty dress. "Mack, John Roy, this is Miss Amanda Davis, the Angel of Shiloh."
Amanda had been studying the two men while they talked, wondering why the younger one wasn't in uniform. He was certainly old enough to be going off to war.
The answer to that became clear when the men rose from their seat in the wagon and lowered their hats over their hearts in a gesture of respect for her. That's when she saw that John Roy was missing a leg. He had already done his part for the Confederacy.
"Ma'am, we've been hearing reports about the Angel of Shiloh, and I'm right pleased to see there was no exaggeration of your beauty."
Amanda almost laughed out loud, but seeing how serious John Roy was, she held it back. "Why, thank you, sir. I'm right pleased to see there was no exaggeration about the charming manners of Tennessee men."
Ken watched the scene in amusement, happy to see the reaction of his neighbors to Amanda. It seemed she had no trouble enchanting grown men as well as children. How could he ever have thought her addle-brained?
And the way she took to Emily was a joy to behold. There was a lot of love locked inside her. How could she have such admirable qualities and still be a liar? That was the question that haunted him.
After Mack and John Roy left, Amanda went searching for Emily while Ken groomed and stabled his beloved horse. She was glad they were getting away from the house for a while, because she felt edgy in Rhoda's company.
She was relieved to find that Rhoda had no intention of joining them at the party. Seemed she didn't think Mack's family worthy of her. So it was with merry hearts that Amanda and Emily joined Ken in a wagon and started their journey to Mack's place.
Emily, like every little girl Amanda had ever known, was full of chatter, and when she wasn't talking to them, she chattered away to herself. It cheered Amanda to know that she was still a normal little girl, capable of playing pretend at a moment's notice.
By the time they arrived at Mack's, the party was already in full swing. Ken very proudly took her hand and escorted her around to meet everyone. Amanda felt surprisingly at home with these rustic people. They were a far cry from the professionals at the archeological dig, or in the hospital where she had worked, but they had an innate intelligence that she found appealing.
Of everyone she met, Martha was the one she liked the most. She was a large-boned woman with hair as red as her husband Mack's, and she wondered if they were cousins. In this day and age, it was probably common for first cousins to marry.
Martha gathered Emily up into her lap and, reaching into the cleavage of her ample bosom, produced a small doll made out of a handkerchief. Emily acted as though it was the most beautiful doll in the world, and clutched it to her chest. Martha's eyes sparkled with tears at the sight, and Amanda knew the woman's heart was as big as her large frame.
Amanda was sure Martha had taken a liking to her when the woman proclaimed, "I heard all about what you done for our Ken, and I thank ye kindly. That little girl needs her daddy somethin' fierce, but she needs a new ma just as much. From the way I seen you look at the child, I'm thinkin' you'd be just the right one."
"I'd like to think that, too. But I'm getting no cooperation from Ken. I'm afraid he feels obligated to marry Rhoda."
"Oh, pshaw, honey, I think you're just borrowin' trouble. Why would Ken feel obligated to that woman?"
"Because he believes Rhoda when she says it was Jennifer's dying wish that they should marry."
"Jennifer's dyin' wish? That's bull crap. Why, last time I talked to Jennifer she was getting set to throw that evil woman right out on her skinny backside."
"Does Ken know that?"
"Not unless she wrote him 'bout it. He was off fightin' the war by then."
"What else did Jennifer say about Rhoda?"
"She never had a chance to tell me cuz that woman was hovering over her bed most of the time I was there. She was about to tell me the why of it when that woman come back in the room. I got the feelin' she was a-listenin' at the door."
That didn't surprise Amanda one bit. "She's very secretive, isn't she?"
"There's not a soul in these here parts what would trust her with their livestock, let alone their precious children. But Ken seems blind to her faults. I reckon it's because she's kin to Jennifer and Emily."
"I guess he can't be blamed for being loyal to family. It's a worthy trait."
Just then, Ken appeared. "Worthy trait?" he asked. "You couldn't be talkin' 'bout me, now, could you? Never thought I'd see the day when Amanda Davis found anything admirable about me. I must be doing something right." He grinned then, and Amanda knew he was thinking about their kiss. He had certainly done that right, and he well knew it.
Amanda tried to stave off the blush that crept up her face, but there was no stopping it. She tried to turn away so he couldn't see it, but he took her face in his hands and stared down at her. "God a'mighty, but you are the prettiest thing when you blush."
Under his fervent gaze, Amanda forgot all about being self-conscious. No man had ever looked at her like that before. It was a look that belonged in the intimacy of a bedroom, and oh, that's where she wished she were right now. But the thought of Rhoda sneaking around quickly changed her mind about that.
Martha winked, then said to Ken, "Why don't you take Miss Amanda out to the barn to see Ghost Dancer's new foal."
Ken's face lit up. "You mean it's born already? Does Emily know?"
"You said you wanted to surprise her for her birthday, so we didn't tell her."
"Well, good. Let's keep it a surprise." Looking hopeful, Ken murmured, "Would you like to see it, Amanda?"
"I'd love to, but I'm surprised you would trust me anywhere near it, considering my record."
Martha looked at her curiously, but kept silent, and Amanda was grateful for that. Obviously she didn't know about the episode with Ghost Dancer, and was too polite to ask.
Taking her hand, Ken led her to the barn. Amanda was pleased to see that his leg was doing so well now, she could barely tell he was favoring it. She was sure it would heal completely and he would be no worse for the wear.
Almost reverently, Ken opened the barn door and escorted her inside. He closed the door after her, and the sudden silence was peaceful to the ear after all the boisterous bantering at the gathering. The sweet smell of hay and old wood mixed with the faint aroma of horse manure was oddly pleasant to her senses, and she felt very at ease there.
He led her to a stall, and they both peered in. A miniature of Ghost Dancer was nuzzling at his mother, drinking greedily. The mare, a pretty chestnut, turned her head to gaze at them; then, content they meant no harm to her baby, she continued munching on hay.
"He's beautiful, Ken."
"Just like his daddy. He'll make a fine riding horse for Emily. Now, we'll have to find one for you, so's you can join us on our rides."
Amanda's heart began to race. Could that mean what she hoped it meant? “Why would you do that, Ken? I mean, I don't think Rhoda would like—"
Ken put his hand over her mouth to hush her, then leaned down to kiss her lighdy. "Angel, I'm not going to marry Rhoda. Not even if it was Jennifer's wish. If she had met you, I'm sure she would have picked you to be Emily's new mother. Besides, Emily's made it abundantly clear who she prefers."
Amanda's heart sank. Staring down at the hay-covered ground, she answered, "I see ... So for Emily's sake, you're willing to put up with me."
Lifting her chin with his hand, he forced her to look directly at him. "Oh, God, is that what you're thinking?" Getting down on his knee, Ken took her hand in his and, gazing up at her, proclaimed, "Miss Amanda Davis, my beautiful Angel of Shiloh, I adore the ground you walk on, the very air that you breathe. You've brought sunshine back into my life, and sweet joy to my heart, and I most humbly beseech you to make me the happiest man that ever walked this earth by consenting to be my wife."
If Amanda was dreaming, she never wanted to wake up. Despite everything she had done to this man, he loved her. It was a miracle, a genuine miracle that she should travel through time to find the one man whom she could love through all eternity.
Overcome with emotion, she fell to her knees and hugged him around the neck.
"Can I take that as a yes," he said, grinning broadly.
"You may take it as a very enthusiastic yes."
Suddenly, Ken fell off balance. Amanda tried to save him from falling, but instead they both tumbled to the ground. Laughing, Ken rolled her over until she was underneath him. The laughter stopped when the heat of her breath drew him like a moth to flame and his lips joined with hers.
When the kiss ended, Ken lowered his head to the low-cut bodice of her dress, nuzzling his nose into the delicate softness of her breasts. Reveling in the exquisite touch, he raised his head to gaze into her eyes. "Forgive me, I've wanted to do that for such an unbearably long time."
Amanda answered with a passionate kiss, slipping her tongue through the barrier of his lips to mingle with his own.
The touch of her tongue in his mouth was too much for Ken. Before he knew what he was doing, her breasts were pulled free from the fabric that so precariously contained them. And his desire, set free, became too hard to tame. He ravaged her breasts with his hands and mouth and tongue in a frenzy of passion such as he had never known before.
Shocked by his boldness and the erotic touch on her naked breasts, she pressed her body against him, positioning herself so that she could feel his hardness between her legs. Tilting her pelvis up, she let him know what she wanted.
Ken gave out a loud, agonizing moan, then set her free. Shuddering with desire, he murmured, "I want you more than anything in this world or the next, but not here. Not on the barn floor. I want to take you in our marriage bed, where I can fill you with my love without fear of interruption."
As if on cue, a soft rapping sounded on the barn door, and Ken and Amanda jumped to their feet and began brushing the hay from each other's clothing.
Clayton, the boy who was going off to war, appeared in the doorway, his hat in his hand.
"Begging your pardon, ma'am. I was a-hopin' you'd consent to dance the next song with me. The wagon will be here to pick me up soon and take me off to the fightin', and I vowed I'd dance with every purty girl here afore that happened. Ma'am, you're the only one left to spoil my plans."
Amanda looked at Ken, fearing he would be upset at being interrupted, but he was nodding his head solemnly. Of course he would approve. He more than anyone knew what hell Clayton would be marching into. "Well, I'd certainly hate to spoil your plans. Lead the way, soldier."
Clayton broke out in a big boyish grin and, plopping his hat back on his head, offered her his arm. Ken followed them outside and watched as they danced to a sad song written especially for soldiers leaving for war.
Amanda seemed awkward at first, and Ken realized that dancing was another thing she was unfamiliar with. But she soon picked up the steps, and before he knew it, she was twirling and stepping as good as the rest.
A wagon full of soldiers pulled up to the barnjust then, and Ken knew they were there for Clayton. The boy saw them, too, then turned back to Amanda. Looking down at her with a fervent expression, he said something, but Ken was too far away to hear what it was. Amanda responded with an impish smile, and just about then the song was over, and people were leaving the wood plank floor set up especially for dancing.
Everyone, that was, except Clayton and Amanda. Before Ken could make sense of what was happening, Clayton and Amanda were kissing. Not a brotherly sisterly kind of kiss, but a long, drawn-out passionate one that had everyone gasping in surprise.
Ken could barely believe what he saw, and he thought again about how unstable Amanda was. But Clayton had no excuse for his action, and if the boy wasn't about to go off to war, Ken would sock him in the jaw for being too familiar.
Then, a loud whooping sound filled the air, almost as powerful as the Rebel yell, and Ken saw the soldiers in the wagon waving their hats at Clayton and Amanda.
Amanda blew them kisses, then beckoned to the nearest girl. The girl giggled at whatever Amanda said and made her way to Clayton, kissing him just as passionately as Amanda had. Ken realized now what was happening, and his heart welled over with admiration for Amanda.
She was making sure that Clayton had a send-off to remember. He should have known better than to think she was promiscuous. She had never done a single thing to make him think so.
Amanda proceeded to whisper to two more girls, who ran over to Clayton and stood in line to kiss him goodbye. Ken grinned. The boy was getting a real good send-off, for certain.
When the kissing was done, Clayton, puffed up with pride, strutted over to the waiting wagon, while Ken joined Amanda. He was surprised to see a sad look on her face, and asked "Why so sad? Thanks to you, Clayton will have a wonderful memory to get him through the tough times."
"Men. What do you know? Clayton didn't say goodbye to his mother. She'll be so hurt."
But she worried needlessly, for suddenly Clayton broke away from the wagon and ran back to his mother. "You'll always be my favorite girl," he said, and kissed her goodbye.
Martha stood watching as her son was driven off to war, her eyes shining with tears, shining with pride for her youngest. And when he was finally out of sight, she lost control, and began sobbing so loudly it broke Amanda's heart. Amanda took the earthy woman into her embrace, and in a few moments her sobbing stopped.
Martha smiled through her tears. "Thank you for what you did. No one else could have given my son such a wonderful memory. You really are the Angel of Shiloh."
Clayton's leaving put a damper on the rest of the evening; and by dusk, the party broke up, and everyone headed back to their homes. Before leaving, Amanda took Martha aside and whispered her good news to her, and they exchanged hugs. Ken lifted Emily into the wagon, then helped Amanda climb up, and they were on their way.
As they drew closer to the house where Rhoda awaited, Emily became quieter, and almost under her breath said to her new doll, "I'm a-putting you somewhere real secret, where Aunt Rhoda cain't find you. You're mine, and I won't let her throw you away like she did my last doll baby."
Something about the way the child spoke made Amanda ask, "Emily, do you have a secret hiding place?"
"Yes, ma'am, I do. Mama fixed it for me. She told me it would be our secret place where we could hide things from Aunt Rhoda, but I cain't tell you where, cuz I promised Mama I'd never tell a livin' soul 'cept for Daddy."
Ken felt a chill go up his spine at his daughter's words. My God, had Amanda been right all along? Pulling the wagon over to the side of the road, he brought it to a halt. Then, almost afraid to hear what she would say, Ken turned to his daughter.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Emily looked up at him with such a sweet, innocent expression on her face, he decided he was worried for nothing. But still for his sanity's sake, he had to ask. "Honey, if Mama said it was all right to tell me about your hiding place, how come you never told me?"
"I was so excited about meeting a real-life angel, I forgot all about it."
"But before, darlin', why didn't you tell me the time I came home for Mama's burial?"
Emily lowered her head and, in a voice barely above a whisper, said, "I was afraid, Daddy. Aunt Rhoda was always there watchin' me." She looked up at him again, suddenly cheerful. "But she doesn't know 'bout the hiding place. Do you want to see it, Daddy? Mama gived me a letter for you, and I hid it there just like she asked. Shall I give it to you now?"
Ken turned to gaze at Amanda with such a stunned look on his face, she knew that he finally believed she was from his future. The last of her loneliness faded away, replaced by a bittersweet ache. At last Ken would know the truth, but what a painful truth to have to deal with.
They started down the road again, the silence heavy between them. When they arrived at the house, Ken helped Amanda and Emily down from the wagon. "Once we're married I want us to have a new home."
Amanda understood that perfectly. There was definitely a pall over this house now. Dreading facing the dark angel that resided within, they entered the house.
Rhoda greeted them in the kitchen.' 'Well, I'm surprised to see y'all home so soon. I half expected a drunken revelry that lasted all night. I'm happy to see you acting like good, God-fearing, respectable folk, and getting home at a decent hour."
Ken and Amanda went up the back stairs without answering Rhoda, little Emily in the lead. Entering her bedroom, she went immediately to a floorboard directly in front of the small bay window. Emily lifted the board and reached in to grasp a yellowed envelope. Amanda recognized it immediately.
When his daughter handed him the letter, Ken sat down heavily on Emily's bed. With a great sigh, he stared down at the familiar handwriting of his dead wife until tears blurred his vision. Gently he unsealed the envelope and, with a tortured look at Amanda, began to read out loud:
My dearest Kenneth, it is with a heavy heart that I write to you, for I fear it will be the last time we will ever commune. Oh, how I wish I could relate to you pages and pages of prose telling you everything you mean to me, but alas, I have not the strength, nor the time. There is something more important that I must say because our precious daughter's life may depend on it.
I've known for some time now that my sister Rhoda has been poisoning me. In truth, she grows bolder about it every day. She has succeeded in isolating me from all our friends and neighbors, turning them from the door by saying I am too ill to see anyone. And so, there is no one but Emily I can turn to. Our little girl has been very brave, bringing me untainted food whenever she can, for I refuse to eat anything that Rhoda prepares for me. But even so, I grow weaker and weaker. It's as if Rhoda taints the very air I breathe.
She denies doing me harm, but has confessed to me her love for you. Since she met you before I did, she thought that you rightfully belonged to her, and she never forgave me for marrying you. Her hatred grew stronger once Emily was born, though she hid it well.
I fear that after I'm gone our daughter's life will be in danger, and I pray that you find this letter in time to save her. Only one thing keeps me from complete despair. Knowing that she needs Emily as bait to trap you into marriage, she will not harm her until then.
She taunts me daily now, impatient for me to the, and she boasts that she will marry you when you return from war. I pray that never happens, for I cannot bear to see you married to such an evil woman.
But there is a reason to dare hope that you and Emily will be all right. In my weakened state I sometimes see visions, and of late I have seen a golden-haired angel holding Emily safe in her arms. She wears strange clothing, with skirts too short to be in style, and shoes like I've never seen before, but then I suspect angels have their own way of dressing.
The more I see of this angel, the more I truly believe she exists, and the more I am hopeful that you and Emily will be in good hands. I must believe that or I can never rest in peace.
And so, I must close this letter before Rhoda returns to find it, like all the others I have written. I have instructed Emily to hide it away, and to give it to you when you return home. I pray you come soon, but if that is not to be, then know this, my dearest Kenneth: my love for you and Emily is undying, and if it is but possible, I shall watch over you throughout eternity. Your Jennifer.
Amanda gazed at Ken through tearstained eyes. "Oh, Ken, do you suppose ..."
Ken placed the letter on Emily's bed, then rose to take Amanda in his arms. "There's not a doubt in my mind that the angel she saw was you. She died with hope in her heart that you would find Emily, and you did. Thank God, you did. Can you ever forgive me for doubting you? For taking the word of a murderess over yours?"
Amanda's heart went out to him knowing how he must be suffering. Hugging him, she murmured, "I'm so sorry, Ken. Please don't blame yourself for not knowing. How could you? How could anyone suspect a close family member of such an atrocity?"
Burying his head in her hair, he said, "My God, Amanda, I trusted her with my daughter. Emily would have died if not for your intervention. I'll never be able to make it up to you."
"You already have, believing me, loving me, even when you thought I was crazy. Do you have any idea how much that means to me?"
"It's a miracle, you know."
"Oh, yes, our love is a miracle."
“And that Jennifer should see your lovely face in a vision. It's as if we were meant to come together."
"Perhaps in some convoluted way that we can't even begin to understand, we were." Amanda had to believe that, otherwise she would live in fear that time would separate them once again. She couldn't bear to even think that. She wouldn't want to live without Ken and Emily in her life.
Hearing Rhoda's footsteps on the stairs, Ken stiffened, and Amanda was afraid of what he might do to his wife's murderer. "Ken, for Emily's sake and mine, don't harm Rhoda. Leave her for the authorities."
Ken gently pushed her away. "Take Emily and go to your room. Stay there until I tell you to come out."
"No. I'm not leaving and neither is Emily. You won't harm Rhoda if your daughter is watching, I know that."
Ken's eyes glazed over with pain. "Do you really think I could harm a woman? Even if she deserves it? I'm not going to touch her, but I want to talk to her without Emily present. Trust me. Please."
Gazing deep into his eyes, Amanda did trust him. But she was still afraid to leave. Her life was becoming so perfect now, she was afraid something would happen to spoil it Rhoda was the one person capable of ruining her chance at happiness.
Touching his cheek, she said, "All right. You win. I'll take Emily to my room, and while we wait for you, we'll talk about our future. Our very happy future when the three of us can be together always."
Amanda took Emily's hand and led her out the door, just as Rhoda was entering. She lowered her eyes when she passed, fearing if she looked into the woman's face, Rhoda would see the hatred shining through. She needn't have worried. Rhoda barely glanced her way.
Ken clenched his fists behind his back when Rhoda entered the room. He stood waiting for her to speak, curious to see what evil lies would trip off her tongue today.
But there was something different about her. Something he had never seen in her before. Vulnerability. When she began to speak, he understood why.
"Kenneth, I thought we should talk about Jennifer's last wish. You know, her wanting us to marry? I think it should be very soon. Ever since you brought that woman to my house, I-I've had the feeling that you were drifting away from me. I know you don't mean to; it's just you feel an obligation to her for saving your life. That's understandable, but it's wrong. You don't owe her a thing."
Keeping his voice calm, he answered, "You mentioned obligation. Let's talk about that, Rhoda. Let's talk about your Christian obligation to help Jennifer when she was ill."
"No need to thank me. What are families for, after all?"
"What are families for? Certainly not to harm, or poison, or murder. Certainly not that."
Rhoda stepped back a few steps, her upper body actually leaning away from Ken, as if frightened of being struck.
"You know what I'm getting at, don't you, Rhoda? I see it in your eyes. You murdered your sister—my wife— Emily's mother—and I swear to you, you'll pay for it. If the law doesn't see to it, I will. One way or another, you'll answer for your crimes."
Rhoda turned ashen, and if mere had been the slightest of doubt about her guilt, it vanished from his mind. She even looked guilty.
"After everything I've done for you, this is the thanks I get? What would have happened to Emily if I hadn't been here for her?"
"She'd still be in her mother's arms if not for you!" Ken snapped. "Get out. Get out of here before I change my mind about harming you. I can't bear looking at your face another moment."
Rhoda slipped out of the room as Amanda watched from the hallway. She was relieved to see Rhoda was unharmed, but wondered why Ken wasn't detaining her for the sheriff. Had she talked herself out of it? Had she convinced Ken she was telling the truth? No. That wasn't possible. Ken knew the truth. He believed her now. She was sure of it.
But doubt began to creep into her mind, and unable to wait a moment longer, Amanda made her way to Ken's side. "Why did you let her go?"
"I didn't. I'm going to lock her in her room, and then send you for the sheriff in the morning. I hate to ask you to do that, but I'll not leave her alone in the same house with you and Emily."
"Then let me go to the sheriff tonight."
"Amanda, it's after dark and it's a long ride. I won't put you in that danger. I'm not taking any chance on losing you."
For a moment, Amanda had forgotten what century she lived in. There was no telephone to pick up and simply dial 911. No cars with lights to brighten the night.
Emily came running to her father then. "Daddy, Aunt Rhoda took your horse and galloped away. Why did she take Ghost Dancer, Daddy; she knows he's your favorite horse."
Ken ran to the window in time to see Rhoda ride away. "Damn her, where does she think she's going? There's no place for her to hide. There's not a person in this county who would take her in once they hear what she's done."
He thought about chasing her on the other horse, but knew it would be futile. There wasn't an animal alive that could outrun Ghost Dancer. Besides, he was afraid to leave Amanda and Emily alone. He couldn't take the chance that Rhoda would double back and do them harm. The sheriff would handle it in the morning.
In truth, he couldn't bear to think about Rhoda anymore. It made him feel like the world's biggest fool to have believed in her. My God, Jennifer might not have died if he had only seen through Rhoda's deceit. And what about Emily? He had handed the care of his precious child to the woman who had murdered Emily's mother.
Kissing Emily on the forehead, he calmed himself. No use in getting Emily upset. "It's been a busy day. Time to go to bed, darlin'."
"I don't want to. What if Aunt Rhoda comes back when I'm sleeping?"
"Honey, it's all right. She'll never set foot in this house again."
Amanda saw the little girl shudder, and a chill crept up her own spine. Lifting Emily up, she hugged her tight, praying Ken was right. But something kept her from believing that. Something that nagged at her mind. Rhoda was not the kind of woman to give up so easily.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Tucking Emily in that night was a joyous event. Out from under the dark cloud of Rhoda's presence, the atmosphere in the house was almost peaceful. More important, the look of wariness was gone from Emily's eyes, replaced with the sparkle of a happy child.
That welcome transformation brought home to Amanda all the more the abuse Emily must have suffered at Rhoda's hands. No child should ever have to feel unsafe in her own home.
They stayed by Emily's bed until she drifted off to sleep; then Ken guided Amanda out of the room with a hand laid gently across her back. Outside the door, she took in a deep breath and leaned her head against Ken's shoulder.
Ken hugged her to him. "I'm almost afraid to leave her alone in there."
Amanda smiled reassuringly at him. "She won't be alone. She has a beautiful guardian angel watching over her."
"She certainly does." Ken kissed Amanda's nose.
"I don't mean me, silly." She ached to tell him about Jennifer, but this wasn't the right time. He had learned enough for one night. But the time would come, she was sure, when she would tell him of the miracle of Jennifer's love. She felt certain her appearance in Emily's bedroom was fostered by her pure protective love for her daughter. She truly had gone beyond the call, trying to shield her child from an evil force.
Ken's voice broke through her reverie. "Who else could you mean; you're the Angel of Shiloh, aren't you?"
"I wish I were. Oh, Ken, so many men died there those awful two days. If I had stayed, perhaps I could have saved some of them."
“Don't berate yourself over that. You're only one person; there was nothing you could have done. I consider it a miracle that you were able to save me."
Amanda knew he was right. Without modern technology, medicine and tools, what chance would she have had to save any more of them? But she had learned something valuable at the battle. She was meant to be a doctor, and she would start practicing again if she had to set up her office in a cow pasture.
While Amanda busied herself in the kitchen, Ken picked up Jennifer's letter and slipped it inside an envelope that he addressed to his brother. Going out to the barn, he placed it inside the hand-tooled saddlebags that Lyle had left with him for safekeeping. If Rhoda came sneaking around, she would never think of looking there. He felt foolish hiding the letter, but he would have need of it as evidence against Rhoda when she was brought to justice. He couldn't take a chance on losing it.
Returning to the house, he told Amanda what he had done, and she seemed apprehensive. "What is it, Angel?"
"I've been wondering what kind of effect my coming here will have on the future. That letter in Lyle's saddlebag is one of the ways it will change. I mean, the letter was originally found unopened in the floorboard. That can't happen now."
"I can't imagine that tiny change will cause much harm." Slipping his hand around her waist, he pulled her to him. "Forget about the future. Let's start concentrating on the here and now. You're here, and oh, God, I want you now."
Amanda laughed, and realizing what he said, Ken grinned sheepishly. "See what you do to me?"
Clasping hands, they went around seeing that the doors and windows were locked, then glided up the stairs by the flickering light of a candle. Standing at the bedroom door, Amanda gazed up at the face she loved so much, and thought of the lonely bed awaiting her. Looking at him expectantly, she waited to see what he would do.
Ken kissed her lightly on her forehead. "I hope you don't mind if we marry real soon. It's too hard tearing myself away from you every night."
Jutting out her lower lip in a pout, she thought, hmph. If it was so hard, why was he leaving her? She decided nineteenth century men were entirely too gentlemanly for their own good. And unfortunately for her, she had too much pride to make the first move.
Murmuring a reluctant good night, she entered the bedroom and closed the door behind her.
A few minutes later, a light rap sounded on the door, and her heart beat wildly in anticipation. Throwing open the door, she found Alvira standing there, ready to help her undress.
Trying to keep the disappointment off her face, she invited the girl in and aimlessly brushed her hair while Alvira worked the hooks and eyes.
Alvira rolled back the bed covers while Amanda slipped into a nightgown, and in a moment she was alone in bed with the longest night of her life looming ahead of her.
This was ridiculous.
Why should she be banished to a virgin's bed?
Nineteenth century men might believe in wasting precious time in separate beds until marriage, but she was no adolescent virgin; she was an experienced woman on the edge of the twenty-first century. Life was too uncertain, too precarious to dare waste a moment of it
Swallowing her pride, she climbed out of bed and made her way to Ken's room. She was shocked to find his door open. Now what? Should she rap on the door anyway, or call out his name? Damn him. It was all his fault she had to lose her pride like this.
Maybe this was a mistake. With a sigh of regret, she turned to leave.
"Amanda? What is it?"
Oh, damn, he had caught her. "It's nothing, sorry to disturb you. I'm going back to my room now."
"Don't go." Ken climbed out of bed, taking the sheet with him. He wrapped it around his body like a Roman toga and walked slowly to the door. Taking her hand, he drew her into the bedroom.
"I didn't want to be alone tonight," Amanda murmured breathlessly.
"Thank God," Ken said, folding her into his embrace. "I didn't know how I was going to make it through the night without you in my arms. I never want to spend another night apart."
Their lips met in a tender kiss, and when it was over, Amanda stepped back to draw a breath, the sheet covering Ken catching on her arm. The next thing she knew Ken was standing there in naked, masculine splendor.
Staring at his wonderful body, Amanda gently closed the door behind her, then with her gaze still locked onto his, pulled her nightgown over her head and dropped it on the floor. Ken's eyes widened; then he scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the bed.
Sinking into the softness of the down cover, Amanda pulled him with her, the skin-to-skin contact of their bodies sending her halfway to heaven. Here was the man she had dreamed of all her life. Here was a man she could love for eternity.
Ken's fervent gaze caressed her body, so softly displayed for him. And when that was not enough, he used his mouth and hands to do homage to her. She was the world to him. In his heart he had always known it.
The taste and touch of her drove him quickly out of his mind with desire. Not because it had been so long since he had made love to a woman, but for a much more profound reason. He had found his soul mate in her. "You are so beautiful, so desirable, I can't believe you're here with me. What have I ever done to deserve such a gift as you?"
Amanda wriggled under him. "I feel the same. To think I could have lived a lifetime without ever knowing how wonderful it can be between a man and a woman!"
Feeling her move under him sent Ken careening out of control, and he entered her quickly, pulling her buttocks up against him possessively.
She responded with an urgency that matched his own. They moved together in perfect harmony, as if they had been making love through all eternity. But, oh, the sensation their lovemaking caused was so new, so ecstatically different than anything she had ever experienced before. It was as if they were the first humans to ever know such rapture.
The heat of their passion grew too hot to go on very long, bursting in a ball of white-hot ecstasy that carried them both over the edge. And when it was over they collapsed in each other's arms, content, for a few brief moments before . . .
Before . . . oh, God, she felt him harden once again. Surprised at the strength of his virility, Amanda gasped and swiveled her hips up to meet his, and the loving began in earnest once more.
The world slipped away as they moved against each other, and time at last stood still. Past and future melded together, sharing the same space in dangerous abandon. But the lovers, selfishly unaware of anything but themselves, rode the waves of desire.
Amanda escaped the bonds of earth in a rapture of such magnitude she was unable to stand it in silence. Her voice escalated with each new wave of sensation until at last, she careened back to the world of mortals with one final shuddering surge.
She lay gasping as Ken rained kisses on her face and neck and breasts, while he murmured his love to her over and over.
It was then they heard the door creak open, and a little voice call out, "Daddy! Amanda! Mommy says you must be careful. Aunt Rhoda is back."
A chill went up Amanda's spine.
Ken called the child over to the bed, and Emily flew into his arms. "It's all right, honey, it was just a dream, that's all. Mommy wasn't really here. Remember she's in heaven. And Aunt Rhoda wouldn't dare show herself here again, so you mustn't worry."
But Amanda knew better. Jennifer was real. But how could she tell him that now and expect him to believe her? She had no choice but to handle the situation herself. "Honey, you stay here with Daddy while I go get you a drink of water. Okay?"
Emily wasn't fooled by Amanda's words. She had seen the truth written on her face. She knew her special angel wasn't going for water, but to find Rhoda. Somehow she understood that it was a secret they must keep from Daddy. He wasn't ready to understand yet. Smiling up at Amanda, she caressed her cheek. "Thank you, Angel."
Amanda saw the trust in Emily's eyes and vowed not to let her down. "I'll be right back."
Ken kept a rifle on top of the chifforobe in the hallway. She would get it, then search the house, make sure that Rhoda hadn't returned. After all, Ken might be right. Emily could have been dreaming.
Standing on her tiptoes, she felt along the top of the chifforobe, but the gun was gone.
A surge of fear rushed through her.
It was no dream.
Rhoda was here.
With her heart in her throat she ran back to the bedroom, frantic to reach Ken and Emily before it was too late. In the dim light from the window she saw Ken on the bed with little Emily held protectively in his arms, and oh, God, a dark form was standing at the foot of the bed holding a rifle pointed at his head.
No! Please God! He can't die now! You've punished me enough. Don't take Ken, too.
She heard the obscene sound of the hammer clicking back and knew there was no more time left.
The short distance to the bed seemed to take forever as she ran, throwing herself on Ken and Emily just as the terrible shot rang out.
She felt it hit her back with a great thud, a moment before the world turned . .. black.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Darkness swirled around Amanda as she wavered in and out of consciousness. She tried to hold on to Ken and Emily, but she had no sensation in her hands. No feeling in any part of her body. Was this what death was like?
Suddenly aware of a pinpoint of light, she desperately reached for it, moving her arms as if she were swimming in a sea of blackness. The light grew and grew until she felt herself being sucked into it.
At that moment, a voice drifted to her, as if from a great distance, and she recognized it as her sister's. But it couldn't be. How could she hear her sister's voice when she had been shot a century before her sister was even born? But that was too much to think about, and she let her mind close down.
The next thing she knew, an irritating noise was sounding, and she recognized it as the beeping of a heart monitor growing louder and louder until she wanted to scream. Other sounds of a modern day hospital grated on her nerves, and she knew she had been transported back to her own time.
She sank into such great despair, she didn't want to live. She willed the heart monitor to stop. Willed her heart to stop beating, for without Ken and Emily in her life, there was no reason to go on.
A chorus of voices suddenly echoed around her, drawing her back to the living. It was Pat's voice, amplified a thousand times. Unable to fight her sister's call, she gave in and took a deep breath.
"She's coming out of it now."
"Amanda, it's Pat. Open your eyes."
Her eyelids fluttered open, and she gazed up at the beloved face of her sister.
"Thank God, you've come back to us. Honey, you're in a hospital. You were shot and just came out of surgery, but you're going to be fine."
Amanda smiled a false smile. "Your love called me back and I had to come."
"Of course you did. We're musketeers, remember? Oh, baby sister, you can't believe how worried I've been. You were in a coma for two days."
"How . . . where . . . did you find me?"
"At the B&B. Actually, it was Mrs. Pell who found you. You almost gave her a heart attack."
Amanda smiled wanly. "Poor thing."
Pat took her hand and kissed it. "Poor thing? How about me?"
Unnerved by everything that had happened, Pat's eyes filled with tears. "Do you have any idea what I've been through? You left me behind to explain your disappearance, and I had a devil of a time concocting a story for Mrs. Pell and the gang at the dig. Ended up just saying you went away on a trip, which was true, of course."
"But how could you know I went back in time?"
"Where else could you be? I watched you disappear with my own eyes."
"You always were the practical one in the family." '"
"Amanda, what's wrong? You seem so sad. I would think you'd be jubilant now, after traveling through time and back. Not to mention surviving a bullet to the back. And meeting a dashing and handsome man like Kenneth Campbell. Nothing to be sad about there."
"If you only knew! He was my perfect love, and now I've lost him at the whim of a fickle God."
"I'd be careful of the words I chose, if I were you."
"Why? What will He do? Punish me? What greater punishment can I have than to lose Ken and Emily? Oh, Pat, I wish you could have met that sweet little girl. She deserves to have a mother who loves her more than anything in the world. Every child should have that. Now, that evil witch has won once again."
A timid knock sounded on the door, and Pat said, "Looks like you have visitors. Shall I let them in, or are you going to go on feeling sorry for yourself?"
"I don't want to see anyone right now. Who is it? Someone from the dig?"
Grinning broadly, Pat said, "You might say that."
Walking over to the door, Pat opened it a crack and peered out into the hallway. "She doesn't want to see anyone right now."
Amanda heard a low-timbered voice answer Pat, and she wondered if her mind was playing tricks on her. It sounded like . . . but, no, it couldn't be. . . .
The door opened wide then, and the dearest face in all the world appeared. "Ken!"
"May we come in, Angel? We've traveled such a long way to be here."
Amanda stared at Ken in shock. "We? You said we? Oh, can it be possible? Is Emily here, too?"
Emily pushed past her father and ran over to Amanda's bed and threw herself into her arms. "You really are an angel. Daddy said you really, truly are. He said you saved his life three times."
Tears streamed down Amanda's face while she gathered the little girl into her arms. "Tell your father he doesn't know how to count right. I saved his life twice, not three times. Once on the battlefield, and once when Rhoda shot at him."
Ken sat on the edge of her bed and caressed her cheek. "Three times, Angel. The third time was when your love brought me to this new world. I feel born again."
"Oh, my darling Ken. I can't believe you're really here. How did it happen? How could you be here?"
"Don't you remember holding on to us for dear life? You kept saying over and over, 'I won't go without them. I won't go without them.' And it worked, because here we are."
"Did I really do that? I have no memory of it at all."
"And quite a journey it was. We appeared in your sister's bedroom, my bedroom, actually, lying on the floor in a heap just as naked as the day we were born. The medical people had to pry your hands off Emily and me."
"Oh, dear. Mrs. Pell saw us naked? That must have been hard to explain."
"Not nearly as hard as trying to explain the minié ball in your back," Pat said merrily.
"I forgot all about that. I wonder what happened to Rhoda after she shot me and we all disappeared? Do you suppose she went on to inherit your farm? I hate to think she got away with murder."
"Are you forgetting the letter?" Ken said cheerfully. "We left it behind in Lyle's saddlebags. He found it there."
"But how can you possibly know for sure?"
Pat took over then. "Honey, you remember the librarian at the historical library?"
"Of course. She's the one who told me about the letter."
"Well, it seems she was mistaken about where and when it was found. She called me at the B&B this morning to apologize and say that she had been mixed up. She said the letter was found by Lyle, Ken's brother, two weeks after Ken and Emily and you disappeared from the house.
"Lyle found it in his saddlebags, and when he read it, he immediately called for the sheriff. Rhoda was arrested and was tried for Jennifer's murder. It was assumed she killed the three of you, too."
"And the library? Is it still called the Captain Kenneth Campbell Historical Library?"
Ken answered that one. "It is. You have no idea how strange it feels having a library named after you in memorium."
"Then it seems like the future wasn't really changed, was it? I mean, you and Emily no longer exist in that time, so it's as if you died. As for me, just a handful of people were aware of my existence there. I wasn't there long enough to do much damage."
Ken took her hand in his then, and kissed the palm. "Damage? How can you call saving two people's lives damage? If not for you, Emily and I would be moldering in our graves. I'll never be able to make that up to you."
Emily spoke up then, and Amanda's heart soared, seeing how happy and content she was.
"Aunt Patty says she's going to bring me to a special place called Disney World where unicorns dance and talking mice perform. I can hardly wait."
Pat took the child's hand and led her from the room. "Emily, let's go find a Coke machine. You haven't lived until you've tasted an ice cold Coke on a warm spring day like this."
Amanda felt a great surge of love for her sister. She would be a wonderful aunt to the little girl. Little Emily would be their third musketeer, and as for Ken, he would hold his own special place in their lives.
In a moment the room was empty except for the two lovers.
"Ken, you seem happy, but I have to ask. Is it just an act? Are you really glad to be here? Aren't you worried about having to start all over again?"
Ken grew serious, and Amanda's heart sank.
"I'd be lying if I said I didn't have qualms, but I look at it this way. You went beyond the call to save my life; now I want to devote my life to making you happy."
"As long as you're happy, too."
"Happy? More like ecstatic. Angel, don't you know I wouldn't want to live if I couldn't be with you. Haven't you realized yet, I love you more than life itself?"
More than life. 
More than life. 
More than life.
The words echoed through the room in eerie waves of sound. It was as if ... as if more than one person were speaking them. As if both Ken and John were speaking in unison.
"More than life. Oh, Ken, John sacrificed his life for mine because he loved me more than life. "
In her heart she knew it was true, and that realization brought her peace. John hadn't committed suicide as she feared. He had committed an act of unselfish love. She understood that now, because she finally knew what true love was.
"I could live the rest of my life in sweet contentment, except for one thing. Ken, do you realize you'll have to start all over again at the beginning of a new millennium? It will be a very different life than you're used to."
"Then let me hear a sigh of contentment from you, Angel, because I think this is the perfect time for us to start our life together. We'll be on equal footing in this new age. It won't be your century or mine; it will be a whole new century, our century. Not to mention a new millennium. What an exciting time to be alive."
Seeing the happy enthusiasm on Ken's face, her fears faded away. He was right. It was an exciting time to be alive.
Thank you, John.
******************
Dear Readers,
In a very real sense, all authors of historical romance novels are time travelers. In writing our stories, we become so absorbed in them that we sometimes feel as if we were actually living back in the time we are writing about. For me, that was never so true as writing Beyond The Call.
In researching the Battle of Shiloh, I discovered that much of it had taken place in a peach orchard at a time when the trees were alive with blossoms. Intrigued, I wrote that scene into my book as if I were truly there. I have always been sympathetic toward the men who fought in the Civil War, whether they were clothed in blue or gray, but now I felt a personal connection to them, and I walked among them accompanied by my hero and heroine, Ken and Amanda.
I hope that when you read this story, you too will be transported back in time and that you will realize as I did that everyone who took part in that terrible war had a story that deserves to be told. This is but one of them.
Sincerely, 
Sandra Davidson
My mailing address is: P.O. Box 3634
St. Augustine, FL 32085-3634
My e-mail address is: SDavid5669@aol.com
My other books are:
A LOVE FOR ALL TIME		ROSEFIRE
THORN OF THE ROSE			ONE SHINING MOMENT
THE HEART REMEMBERS		THE ENCHANTING

CHANCES ARE		$
LISA PLUMLEY
CHAPTER ONE
Early March, present day
For a ghost town, the community of Landslide, Arizona, had a whole lot of people in it.
And every last one of them was outside enjoying the gorgeous, not-a-cloud-in-sight springtime afternoon . . . right smack in the middle of the street.
Must be spring fever, Haley Madison decided. She stared at the crowds of tourists wandering happily down the two-lane blacktop in front of her Jeep, then eased her grasp on her steering wheel. She wasn't getting anyplace in this melee. Not to the restored Chance mansion she had glimpsed at the top of the winding street, not to her appointment with the curator who maintained the house, and not to the Podunk restaurant her photographer had recommended for lunch, either.
Worst of all, she would not be getting to the bathroom she had desperately needed to visit since beginning the two-thousand-foot ascent into the mountains that Landslide had been carved out of in the late nineteenth century.
Haley bit her lip and scanned the shops lining the street, hoping against the odds to see a nice, familiar, fast food joint—or anyplace else that looked as though it might have an easily accessible public rest room. Instead, she realized that in Landslide, apparently, nothing was easily accessible.
Crowded, yes. That, the place managed quite nicely. Tumbledown, too. Crumbled brick buildings nestled cheek by jowl with clapboard Victorian houses, most of them renovated to house gift shops and restaurants. Other homelier buildings leaned into the jagged mountainside looming behind them, their windows shuttered with nailed-on plywood. Boulders, yellow-blooming creosote bushes, and walnut trees with dark, gnarled trunks and budding new leaves filled the spaces in between.
There wasn't a single pair of golden arches among them.
Haley scrunched her nose and tried to think of something—anything—besides her need to relieve herself of the Gobbler Gulp diet soda she had picked up in the Verde Valley and downed during the long drive up the mountainside. At the time, a nice big caffeine jolt had seemed like a good idea, considering the late night she had spent with her laptop, Chance family genealogy notes, and the lonesome half of her hotel room bed. Now she just wished she had searched harder for her usual morning pick-me-up of a double latte—a small one.
Finally the clump of tourists parted, streaming toward the sidewalks on either side like fanny-pack-toting trout. Haley nosed her Jeep forward. Behind her, the driver of the yellow Volkswagen beetle that had chugged noisily up the mountain in her wake accelerated, too. She eyed it curiously in the rearview mirror. Since leaving her hotel room this morning, she had seen at least eight such vehicles, all of them headed toward Landslide.
Obviously, they knew something about the town that she did not.
Which was saying something, Haley figured as she stepped on the brakes again a short way down the block to let a family cross the street. In the three months since Mrs. Maxwell Chance had hired her to research and write her husband's family history, she had probably found out just about everything there was to know about Landslide.
The Chance family had founded the town, and their mining interests had allowed it to prosper well into the twentieth century. Everything she had read suggested it had become a ghost town, but the determined Mrs. Chance had refused to believe anything her husband's family had touched would dare to be less than prosperous, even a hundred years past its prime.
It looked as though she had been right.
Rats.
Haley frowned through the windshield at the thriving tourism surrounding her and felt herself growing instantly poorer. Whatever had possessed her to make a bet with Mrs. Chance? The woman couldn't possibly have known, from her estate in Connecticut, what Haley would find in the wilds of Arizona. Yet she had been sure enough of her husband's famed—and reputably inherited—golden touch to wager the cost of first-class plane fare on it.
Maybe the rich really were different. Haley wouldn't know. At the rate her genealogy service was growing, she wasn't in danger of a sudden transformation herself.
The family in front of her finally reached the sidewalk. The mother, keeping her gaze on the popcorn vendor Haley assumed was their destination, struggled to push her balloon-bedecked baby stroller onto the curb. Before she had so much as hefted an inch, the father crouched slighdy to help her, being careful not to upset the little boy riding on his shoulders.
The child shrieked with delight at the movement and clutched his small, chubby hands harder onto his father's head. Their joined laughter carried clearly on the buttery popcorn-scented breeze, wending its way through Haley's rolled-down window . . . and going straight into the lonely, shuttered parts of her heart.
The ache she felt should have been familiar by now. A childhood spent the way hers had been should have made her immune to wanting what she knew she would never have. But somehow Haley couldn't shake the longing. It felt as much a part of her as the sudden prickle of tears welling behind her sunglasses. She blinked them back, swearing beneath her breath. When would she quit being such a soft touch—especially for lost causes?
The yellow Volkswagen driver blared his horn. The sound jolted her upright, heart pounding. Haley glared into the rearview mirror and was aghast at the line of cars— Volkswagens, all—piled up behind her on the twisty road.
"Hey, toots!" Mr. Yellow VW leaned out his driver's side window, sporting a brown beret and a tie-dyed T-shirt. "Move it or lose it."
"I'm already losing it," Haley mumbled to herself. Too much more of this "poor me" routine, and she would never get to work on the Chance book. Her business was all she had. If that went down the tubes, she didn't know what she would do.
But she knew what she wasn't going to do. She wasn't going to meet the Chance mansion's curator with red-rimmed eyes, windblown hair, and an urgent need to visit the ladies' room. Some distraction was clearly in order.
"Go around." She stuck her arm out the window and waved the line of cars past her. For Mr. Yellow VW's benefit, she pointed toward a nearby parking space in front of a white-steepled building sporting a Heavenly Eats sign. "I just needed that parking space."
His expression told her he thought she needed more than a convenient place to park. Revving his engine, he led the motorcade past her and up the steep-sloped hill beyond.
Haley sighed and squeezed her Jeep into the parking space she had seen. Time to get to work.
******************
By the time Haley pulled into the parking lot outside the hilltop Chance mansion, it was nearly sunset. A few hours spent wandering the streets of Landslide had yielded several pages' worth of notes, a number of snapshots, and miles of ambiance to be recorded later during her usual laptop-and-Letterman writing routine.
With a satisfied smile, she hauled her bulging tote bag from the Jeep's passenger seat. Juggling it and her car keys, she slid from the driver's side door, then stepped onto the nearly vacant paved parking lot. She hoped she wasn't too late—the brochure she had packed said that house tours were only available until seven o'clock.
She closed the Jeep's door and pushed her key chain button to activate the alarm. Its beep echoed along the mountainside, shrill and strangely out of place in the dusky stillness of early evening. Now fhat the sun had slid behind the mountains that sheltered the town, everything felt cloaked in quiet, and the air was much chillier than before. Suddenly, she wished she had thought to wear something warmer than the khaki pants, white knit tank top, and white men's-style linen shirt she had shrugged into this morning. Who would have thought Arizona in springtime could hold surprises like this?
Shivering, Haley hugged herself and stepped over the concrete marker bordering the adjacent parking space, headed for the edge of the pavement to see the view.
Below the plateau the house and parking lot had been constructed on, the shops of Landslide glowed with lighted signs and the occasional flicker of neon. Farther down in the Verde Valley, headlights skimmed along the ribbon of highway leading to and from the town. Beyond them, orange sunlight slid down the face of the distant mountain range, chased by lengthening shadows.
She could see why Matt Chance, the patriarch of the family, had chosen such a setting for his house. The view was spectacular.
So was the house itself. Turning to face the two-story, creamy adobe structure, Haley put on her best business demeanor and shrugged her bag higher on her shoulder. There was nothing like seeing the places where her genealogy subjects had lived to add authentic atmosphere and a personal touch to her books. Clients ate up that stuff with a spoon, historical idiosyncrasies and all.
Truth be told, Haley did, too. So whenever possible, she finished up the writing of a family history with visits to any family residences that had withstood condo-izing and freeway expansion. Luckily for her, thanks to its remote location in the mountains, the Chance house had escaped both fates.
She walked up the paved pathway, approached the impressively carved entry door, and took a deep, anticipation-filled breath. This part of her research always thrilled her. There simply wasn't anything else like it. Okay, Mr. Chance. Time to uncover all your secrets.
Inside, the foyer-turned-museum-office was filled with brochure-packed racks, a desk and guest book, garish fluorescent lights, and the kind of silence that told her the last tour of the day had already started.
Rats.
By the time she caught up, the group was filing through the floral-wallpapered upstairs hall. The curator's voice filled the space all the way to the high arched ceiling.
"After Eugenie Chance's death," he said, leading the group along the threadbare carpet runner, "her husband, Matt, retreated from the active social life the couple had enjoyed. In later years, he became something of a recluse, turning the upstairs bedrooms you see on either side of you into hotel-style guest rooms for visiting mining officials and state lawmakers."
Haley leaned toward an open doorway, barely catching a glimpse of one bedroom's sage green painted walls, four-poster bed, and ornate picture rail and moldings before the tour moved on. At this rate, she wouldn't remember a thing about the house. She would definitely have to make a return trip tomorrow.
"And although she succumbed to the smallpox epidemic that swept the Verde Valley in late 1892, until then, Eugenie Chance enjoyed an active life with her two children and, of course, her husband. She and Mr. Chance were famous for their luxurious parties on the house's full-length terrace overlooking the valley. A true golden couple of their time."
At the head of the seven or eight tourists with him, the curator gestured toward an open doorway. Peering over the head of the woman in front of her, Haley saw that he had indicated the last room at the end of the hall.
"And like most couples of this period," he went on, "Eugenie and Matt Chance had separate bedrooms."
He stepped aside to allow the tourists to enter the room, and his voice turned muffled. "As you might have guessed, this particular room belonged to the lady of the house. Furnished with no expense spared, it's a beautiful example of exactly how far a man will go to please the woman he loves—a sentiment no less true in the eighteen nineties than it is today."
The women in the crowd murmured and smiled. Every one of them looked smitten. Probably at the notion of a man who would actually undertake decorating in the name of love, Haley guessed. The men she had known would have slept on old beach towels before braving the linens section of a department store. Curious to see what love-struck decorating had wrought, she nudged forward and ducked inside the room.
It took her breath away. The curator's voice carried on, describing the furnishings and architectural details, but all Haley could do was stare in wonder. Fine linen and lace abounded in gorgeous pastel tones that contrasted perfectly with the glossy cherry wood furniture. Light from the chandelier reflected off pictures of the Chance family arrayed on the fireplace mantel. It sparkled from the silver hairbrushes and crystal bottles on the vanity. It cast everything in such warmth that the chill she had felt earlier seemed to melt away beneath it.
The curator was right. This room had been decorated by a man in love. A man who would go to any lengths to please his woman.
A man like Matt Chance.
Haley sighed and ran her fingers over the thick-cushioned velvet rope that separated the viewing area from the rest of the bedroom. What would it have been like, to have been loved so deeply? Even now, she could almost feel love's presence in the room. Fanciful as that sounded, there was something . .. elemental about a love like that. Something she had always craved.
"As you can see," the curator said, "this portion of the house is especially well preserved. After his wife's death, Matt Chance closed and locked this room, and it wasn't opened again until his passing several years later. Old-timers rumored that he died of a broken heart."
"What a shame!" cried the woman beside Haley.
"Absolutely tragic!" said another.
More murmurs of agreement were heard, but Haley's wasn't among them. Tragic, yes, to have loved so strongly and lost. But also, it seemed....
"Romantic." She whispered the word, thinking of the enigmatic man whose life she had been studying for the months leading up to her visit. "Really, really, romantic."
They just don't make 'em like they used to, she decided as the rest of the group shuffled out of the bedroom and returned to the hallway beyond. The sounds of the curator guiding them toward what had to be a servants' staircase at the rear of the house grew fainter, until all that remained were Haley, the enchanted bedroom of Mrs. Chance, and that red velvet dividing rope.
She stroked it once more, feeling the tender nap of the velvet rise beneath her fingertips. She chanced a quick glance over her shoulder. Everyone had continued with the tour; she was alone. Sadly, Haley let her gaze rest on the marble-fronted fireplace, then raised it to the family photographs arranged above it.
She closed her eyes.
Please, she thought. Just once, let me feel that kind of love. I know I don't deserve it. But I don't even need very much. Just a little love is all I'm asking for.
She held her breath ... and waited.
CHAPTER TWO
Nothing happened. So much for enchanted ambiance.
What did you expect, Madison? A fairy godmother? Outside of storybooks and movies, people just didn't have their hearts' desires dropped into their laps on the strength of a wish. For her of all people, that was hardly headline news. As usual, she would have to go after what she wanted herself.
Opening her eyes, Haley summoned her powers of concentration and looked over the room again, imagining herself in the arms of a man who loved her. He would draw those heavy silver-backed brushes gently through her hair, easing the tangles within as easily as he had captured her lonely heart.
He would dab perfume on her from those shining crystal bottles, and hold her close to savor the scent himself.
He would love her truly, and well. He would love her forever.
"Just once," she whispered. I'll never ask for more.
Suddenly, footsteps clomped down the hallway. Loud, masculine-sounding footsteps . . . and they were coming closer. Haley's breath caught in her throat. Her heart hammered, giving her a vaguely woozy feeling, as though she had downed three cappuccinos and then spent an hour pounding away on the Stairmaster. She squeezed the velvet rope and turned to the doorway.
She waited.
The curator stuck his head around the doorjamb and grinned. "Ms. Madison, is that you? I've been expecting you!"
She nodded, wanting to kick herself for the stupid, sappy things she had been imagining. "I just got here a little while ago. Sorry to interrupt the tour."
"Nonsense!" He beamed, extending his hand for her to shake. "If it were up to me, I'd have waited all evening for you."
Unfortunately, Haley couldn't say the same for him. Truth be told, she had been waiting—even wishing—for someone else entirely.
******************
She never should have touched that bottle, Haley told herself later. Much less stolen it.
But it was too late now. Sitting safely in her cold, darkened Jeep, she scanned the mostly abandoned parking lot surrounding her and pulled her tote bag onto her lap. Its weight felt comfortingly familiar. The odd mixture of adrenaline rush, guilt, and wistfulness inside her did not.
She really was losing it.
But something about that house, that room, that love had .. . called to her, for lack of a better word. All she had wanted was to taste it, just for a moment. Stealing, of course, was wrong. Absolutely. But that one moment of holding the crystal perfume bottle from Eugenie Chance's vanity table had felt achingly, wonderfully, right.
So she had slipped the bottle into her tote bag when the curator's back was turned, and then gone on talking with him just as though she wasn't stealing from the very house he was responsible for.
Chagrined at the thought, Haley scrunched her nose and reached into her tote bag. The delicate perfume bottle fit perfectly in her hand. It was small, but fairly heavy for its size, and her skin quickly warmed the crystal. She cradled it in her palm, watching the light from the street lamp splinter into rainbows across its surface.
She had to return it, of course.
In fact, she was surprised its absence hadn't been noticed already. The vanity set she had taken it from had appeared custom-made, with each crystal bottle nestled in its own fitted niche in the box's black-velvet lining. Surely, the gaping space would be obvious to anyone who gave the vanity more than a cursory glance. It would look like an unfinished puzzle, with the most important piece missing.
A halfhearted grin quirked her lips. Funny—that was exactly the way she felt right now. Incomplete, as though a part of her had yet to be found.
Haley raised the bottle. Resting her cupped hand on the steering wheel, she stroked her fingertips over the crystal. At the contact, yearning welled inside her. More than anything, she wanted her wish to come true, wanted to feel the kind of love she had heard about and read about... and never found for herself.
The closest she had come was a hundred-year-old perfume bottle. And even that really belonged to someone else, to another time and place.
She sighed and squeezed the bottle tighter. Time to put this night to an end. She would return the bottle, drive back to her hotel room, maybe tackle another chapter in the Chance book. And in the morning, she would feel like herself again.
Clutching her tote bag in one hand and the perfume bottle in the other, Haley shouldered open the Jeep's door and got out. But at the edge of the house's broad-pillared terrace, she stopped. Sure, she was going to return the bottle. Right away. But maybe she could take a little of the magic with her when she left. With trembling fingers, she removed the crystal stopper from the perfume bottle and raised it to her nose.
Lilacs.
Even after so many years, the aroma of the flowery perfume still lingered on the glass. Smiling faintly, Haley closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. The heady scent of lilacs seemed almost enough to transport her to that feminine bedroom all over again. Unable to resist, Haley turned her arm and stroked the stopper over her wrist.
Warmth bloomed where the fragrance touched her. Unbelievably, it seemed as sweet and just-picked fresh as it must have been on the day Matt Chance had given it to his wife. She reinserted the stopper and then applied more, this time to her neck. Heavenly.
Inside the house, a door slammed. Haley jerked and almost dropped the bottle. Guiltily, she looked toward the muted light shining through the heavy brocade curtains at the window to her left. They would be locking up the place soon. She had to act now.
It only took a heartbeat's time to walk to the front door. It took miles more courage to actually open it. Holding her breath, Haley opened the door and ducked inside. Heated air struck her, contrasting sharply with the chill outside.
It looked as though the curator had put away all the brochures and the guest book, turned off the fluorescent strip lights overhead—even moved the desk out of the entryway. Odd. Intent as she was on slipping upstairs to replace the perfume bottle before she could be seen, Haley couldn't afford the time to wonder about it.
Until a masculine voice called from behind her.
Trying not to cringe at the sound of approaching footsteps, she shoved the bottle hastily into her tote bag. No point being arrested over something she had been in the midst of returning, anyway. She would just have to find a better time to undo her mistake.
She turned around. A myriad of impressions reached her at once—the glow of firelight, the scent of woodsmoke, the resilient feeling of real wood flooring beneath her feet—but all of them were nothing compared with the incredible sight that greeted her.
Matt Chance.
In all his rough-hewn, six-foot glory.
Haley recognized him quickly enough. She had seen enough photographs to relate the sandy-haired, unsmiling subject of her research to the flesh-and-blood, unsmiling man before her. From his hooded eyes and close-clipped beard right down to his plaid flannel shirt, dark twill pants, and muddy work boots, he was the man she had just spent months learning about.
Oh, my God.
He looked pointedly at the door she had left standing partway open, then returned his formidable gaze to her. The power of that look had nothing to do with history or research—and everything to do with the air of authority he wore as easily as his own skin. This was a man who carried his legend well.
"You're the most brazen one yet," he said.
The hard-edged timbre of his voice weakened Haley's already wobbly knees. She grabbed for something to steady herself, and found nothing. This couldn't be, absolutely couldn't be happening. No way.
Her silence didn't seem to bother him.
"But then, maybe it's more than the nanny position you're interested in." He shrugged and walked closer. "You wouldn't be the first female they've sent who wanted a place in my bed to sweeten the work."
Nanny position? His bed? Who did he think she was?
Haley stepped backward, but all he did was follow her.
"Tell me," he said, stopping her halfway to the door. "Are you here for the job ... or for me?"

CHAPTER THREE
Early March, 1895
The damned woman was going to swoon.
Matt recognized all the signs. The color drained from her face as though his question had chased it away. Her big blue eyes widened, and she trembled hard enough to make even the god-awful clothes she had on flutter against her slender body. It crossed his mind that whoever she was, she sure hadn't dressed to seduce him. She looked like a skinny boy in those britches and that shirt.
She wobbled, as though her knees were about to buckle. He stepped forward to catch her, but the woman righted herself before he could, leaving him looming over her for no reason. He tried to think of something soothing to say instead.
All that emerged was, "On the other hand, I like a woman who knows what she wants."
Her mouth opened, probably to let loose a protest. Then she seemed to think better of it ... and let her eyes do the talking, instead. The bold, up-and-down perusal she gave him was enough to turn his blood hotter all by itself.
Matt couldn't hold back a grin. "Especially when it's me."
Her face, delicate and surprisingly pretty beneath a mass of curly black hair, paled even further. "You—you—" Looking panic-stricken, she glanced over her shoulder toward the front door. "You weren't supposed to ... damn."
She bit her lip, then squinted toward him. "What year is this?"
"Eighteen ninety-five."
"Right. Oookay, I guess that makes it official. I've obviously been working too hard." She looked down at her battered satchel, seemed surprised to find it slung over her shoulder, and gripped its handle tightly. "If you'll excuse me, I'll just go check back in with reality now."
She turned, walking toward the door with a stiff, hurried stride that told him she was either embarrassed, uncomfortable dressed in men's clothes, or scared witless. Since Matt couldn't imagine what she would have to be afraid of—after all, she was the one who had come looking for him—it had to be those clothes. Women obviously weren't meant to wear britches.
"Wait."
To his surprise, she didn't.
Two strides took him to the door. He clapped his hand onto her shoulder, and had just enough time to register the fragile span of her collarbone beneath his fingers before she gave a little shriek of surprise and whirled around.
She grabbed his hand and wrenched it from her shoulder. with an expression of disbelief, she cradled it between her palms, turning it over to examine his fingers, his palm, the sun-browned back of his hand.
"You're actually warm."
He shrugged. "A pretty woman like you makes me feel downright toasty."
She let go as if his fingers were on fire. Her gaze flew to his. She searched his face, started to lift her hand toward his jaw . .. then yelped and whirled for the door.
"This is wrong," he heard her mutter. "Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong." She gave a choked laugh and faced him with her hand on the doorknob. "It's been swell. Got to go."
She ducked through the doorway.
Hell. She was one of those women who wanted wooing. Bold enough to approach him, but still woman enough to wish for coaxing and coddling and syrupy, stupid words they would both forget in the morning. She probably expected him to follow her and ask her to stay. Sweet-talk her into staying, even.
Her hand emerged in the doorway, groping for the knob. An instant later, the huge, heavy door slammed shut.
Or maybe no sweet-talking after all. Good riddance, Matt decided. The last thing he needed was a woman like that for a nanny. She was funny-looking. Obviously touched in the head. It didn't bear thinking about that for a minute there, when she had held his hand in hers, he had actually felt attracted to a madwoman.
Besides, there wasn't any point in getting used to having a woman around again. She would only leave, just like the rest had. Matt shook his head at the door, suddenly feeling cold. A chill shuddered through him, although the flannel shirt and heavy britches he had on furnished plenty of protection for such a mild springtime night—a night that had dished up the likes of Miss Fancy Pants for a surprise.
Turned out, he wasn't as immune to curiosity as he had thought.
Frowning, he went to the fireplace and picked up the black iron poker from its place beside the hearth. He stabbed it at the burning logs, trying not to think of how cold it must be out on the dark hillside, where the loony woman was. She had gotten all worked up over a bunch of nonsense. No reason why it had to involve him ...
Outside, a piercing scream came from the direction of the terrace.
. . . except that he had always been a sucker for a lady in trouble. Couldn't walk away, couldn't resist, couldn't trust that fate would provide. With a muttered curse and a quick glance upstairs to make sure his children weren't afoot, Matt went outside to reckon with his weakness.
*    *    *
Her stupid delusion had somehow managed to alter the terrace, too. It was missing the wheelchair-accessible ramp she had used to walk from the parking lot to the house not ten minutes ago. From the other side—the lower side—of the terrace where she had landed after her misstep, Haley glared upward. This was what came of wishing.
Especially for things you weren't supposed to have.
With that dismal thought came the sudden, overwhelming urge to stay on her backside in the dirt and bawl her eyes out. She sniffed, blinking as hard as she could. Then, feeling a little calmer, she hauled her tote bag onto her lap.
She hugged it close, staring at the star-lit night surrounding her in an attempt to get her bearings. Somewhere nearby, cicadas buzzed in the stillness. Farther away, a coyote howled. The absence of traffic sounds, of just plain people sounds, was spooky.
This whole thing had to be her own creation, brought on by overwork and an active imagination. Matt Chance, in person—what an entry in the genealogy book that would make!
But weren't delusional people usually happy? She had always supposed, given the choice, a person would imagine whatever made him happiest. Now that she had driven herself around the bend, Haley wasn't so sure.
Of course, as far as imaginary people went, she supposed Matt Chance would do just fine. Historically speaking, he was said to be honest, successful, and undeniably devoted to his wife and children. But her books hadn't quite captured the reality of the man himself. It had been all she could do to quit staring in amazement. And when he had touched her . .. waitaminute. Matt Chance could not be real. Period.
The best thing to do was get in her Jeep and drive back to civilization. Some sleep, maybe a little time off, and she would be fine. Okay. Decision made, Haley opened her tote bag and reached inside for her keys.
Behind her, the house's front door opened. She froze.  Was he coming after her? Or was it the curator she had met earlier, leaving and locking up for the day? Be the curator, she prayed, turning her head just enough to glimpse the big, tall body that filled the entryway.
The now familiar, admittedly attractive body standing there could only belong to Matt Chance.
Or an amazingly good imitator, she reminded herself. There was still a chance there might be a logical explanation for all this. Watching him warily, Haley sat up straighter and got ready to make a move if he came closer.
He did. His big booted footsteps rang out against the tiled terrace, drawing nearer, then stopped.
The darkness hid her from him, she realized. That, and the slope at the edge of the terrace, meant he couldn't see her. Releasing a pent-up breath, she dug into her tote bag again, still searching for her keys. She would find them, make a run for the Jeep, and be gone before any other delusions could present themselves. Her fingers closed around something cool and glasslike, a multifaceted thing that grew warmer as her hand closed around it.
The perfume bottle.
The same one she had held, the same one she had used to perfume herself before walking ... into the past? The possibility brought her up short. She had wished for the kind of life Eugenie Chance had had, wished for love and stroked on that perfume. Minutes later, she had found herself toe-to-toe with Matt Chance himself. Could it be that her wish, combined with some magical properties of the perfume or the bottle, had sent her years and years into the past?
The rhythmic movement of his footsteps began again, slower this time. "If you're hurt, you'd better come out," he called—from someplace nearby, if she wasn't mistaken.
The sound jolted her into action. She dropped the bottle back into her bag and scrambled to her feet. Her Jeep wasn't parked that far away. She would have to grab the keys while she ran. A quick, orienting glance told her the house was still behind her. So was Matt Chance.
He yelled something when she stood up. Haley couldn't listen. She ran, tote bag thumping against her hip while she dug around for her keys. Matt's footsteps pelted the terrace, stopped, then resumed, muffled against the packed dirt she had landed on after her fall. She felt her keys scrape her palm and grabbed them. He wouldn't catch her now.
Suddenly, Haley had the confused impression she should have already reached her parking space. She sensed the gritty feel of dirt beneath her feet where there should have been pavement, then struck a patch of softer ground. Grass, she realized. Panicked, she yanked her keys from her bag and let the whole thing drop, spewing things onto the ground in her wake.
A masculine curse split the air behind her. She heard things being kicked, feet scraping against the soil. An instant later, he grabbed her shoulders in both hands and dragged her backward, clear off her feet. Haley hit the ground belly first. Matt Chance landed hard on top of her. She felt the weight of his chest pressing into her back, the strength of his thighs clamped around her hips.
His breath whooshed past her ear. "Stop, damn it! Hold still."
Instinctively, she struggled. She couldn't budge her lower half, it was so firmly pinned beneath him, but her arms still worked. She used them to inch forward, grabbing for a handful of dirt. No man with good intentions just tackled a woman, and Haley didn't mean to go down easily. Her fingernails scraped the soil.
"Oh, no, you don't." His hand covered her wrist, digging into the fragile bones and skin until she was forced to open her hand.
So much for her brilliant plan to blind him with dirt and escape. Haley let the soil drop onto the ground.
In the sudden stillness that followed, she heard the small clods of earth she had held fall ... and keep right on falling. The faint sound of dirt sifting over rocks and weeds, moving unmistakably downward, riveted her.
"Understand the problem now?"
His voice was close, harsh. The sound of it made her shiver. Slowly, she became aware of the cold ground beneath her, the hot man on top of her—and the wide expanse of open air at the edge of the hilltop where he had caught her.
Another foot and she would have plummeted down the hillside in the dark.
"Y-yes," she managed. Could you the in a delusion? Or was it like a dream, where you would wake up first? Haley didn't have the courage to test the theory.
"Good."
He stood and yanked her upright in the same motion. She crashed into his chest, breathing hard, and stared up at the man who had just saved her life. "Who are you?"
He tilted his head. She couldn't see his face clearly in the shadows, but Haley sensed him studying her. She wanted to shrink beneath his scrutiny.
"Matt Chance."
She shoved away from him. "No, really. No games. You just saved my life, and I'm—"
"You're lucky as hell I came after you, is what you are. Didn't you hear me yell for you to stop?"
She shook her head. He caught hold of her wrist, and this time his grip was much less bruising. She had a feeling he was gentler than he seemed, although what that impression was based on, she couldn't have said. Probably, it was the same thing that had time-warped her here. Whatever that was.
"Come inside. I want to take a look at you."
He marched her back toward the house, towing her in his wake like the childish girl she had never been. She stumbled over something—her tote bag, she realized— and dug in her heels.
"I need my things. My-my bag."
He released her. Haley crouched and grabbed her bag. Luckily, her laptop felt safely secured in its case. Everything else, she wasn't so sure of. Peering across the ground for the things she had heard falling out of her bag, she found her wallet and shoved it inside. It was darker than midnight outside. She glanced up automatically to see if the streetlight had burned out.
It had disappeared.
A sick feeling squeezed in her stomach. She looked toward the Verde Valley in the distance. The steady stream of headlights she had noticed earlier had disappeared, too. She had a feeling the highway was gone, as well. Streetlights and highways—and Jeeps—didn't exist in the nineteenth century world of Matt Chance.
Oh, my God.
She sure hadn't wished for all this.
CHAPTER FOUR
Matt Chance hunkered down beside her and nudged her shoulder with the thing he held in his hand. Her dayplanner. Haley took it numbly, shoving it into her tote bag along with all the other links to her own time.
He picked up something from the dirt and held it toward her. A pen. Or, more accurately, two halves of a broken ballpoint. "Sorry. I couldn't help stepping on some of these things when you threw your satchel at me."
"I didn't throw it at you. I just—" Wanted to get away from you. Yeah, that would definitely endear her to him, the only person she knew much of anything about in this time period. "—dropped it," she finished lamely. Panic tightened her throat and made her heart pound hard enough to scare her even more. What was she going to do?
Haley took a deep breath, trying to pull herselftogether. Beside her, Matt Chance remained silent, wordlessly gathering the bits and pieces of her life and handing them to her one by one. She shoved the last item into her bag and stood.
"Look, I know you don't understand why I ran off like that. But thank you for saving me. Nobody's ever . .. done that Not for me."
He looked her up and down. "You've tried this before? And folks let you jump off the cliff, just like that?"
"No. I mean ..." She cleared her throat, looking toward the vast darkness where the streetlights and neon signs of twentieth century Landslide should have been. Everything she had was in that world. What was she supposed to do now?
Unexpected loneliness made her voice waver when she tried to speak again. "I mean, usually they just let me leave."
He was silent. Then, "You're hurt."
"No, it's not that." She stared downward, avoiding his scrutiny. "I just—"
"You have tears in your voice."
He was right. They both knew it. Even though it wasn't her scraped elbow and sore backside that had her fighting tears, Haley felt ashamed that he saw through her so well.
She waved her arm, trying for nonchalance. "Sure, I do. Did. Who wouldn't? Most of my stuff is broken."
Her aching throat made the words sound cracked and uncertain. Damn it. Not only could she not lie convincingly to Matt, but she wasn't doing a bang-up job of deluding herself, either.
Doing her best to ignore her self-consciousness Haley snatched her cell phone from the ground nearby, tucked in some loose wiring, then shoved the whole useless unit into her bag. She couldn't stand knowing he might pity her. Bravado made her keep on talking.
"If I could've used that to call the cops, I would have. Believe me. Nobody messes with Haley Madison and gets away with it."
She folded her arms across her chest, crushing her battered tote bag against her. "Understand?"
"I understand." His hand touched her arm. "You must've hit your head, Miss Madison. Come inside now."
The warmth of his touch penetrated Haley's shirtsleeve in an instant. It warmed her all over . .. and made her feel twice as stupid for babbling on like she had. Nobody messes xvith Haley Madison. Who was she trying to kid? Nobody had ever kept her around long enough to hurt her.
She shrugged off his hand and wished she could have ignored the concern in his voice as easily. "I think there's something else over there," she muttered, hoping to gain a few seconds to pull herself together. How did the man affect her so easily? He didn't even know her.
Something glittered in the dirt, offering her the perfect excuse to walk away from him. When she got closer, Haley recognized it. The perfume bottle. As far as she knew, it held her only hope of returning to her own time.
Thank God it didn't appear broken. Haley grabbed it and stuffed it into her tote bag moments before Matt's hand descended onto her shoulder again.
"If there's more here, we'll get it tomorrow in the daylight," he said, urging her to stand. "Walk or be carried."
"Sure thing, He-Man."
He swept her into his arms.
"Heeey!"
The out-of-control sensation of being held by him made her panic, and the horrible feeling only got worse when he started walking toward the house. Shrieking, Haley struggled to get down. Her efforts had about as much effect as yelling did. Shoving at Matt Chance's chest was like trying to push a Buick. Uphill. Wriggling, she clamped both hands on the muscular span of his biceps and tried yanking his arms off her instead.
He stopped walking. "For such a little thing, you're strong."
"Aerobics."
"Mmm-hmm." Matt stepped onto the terrace and kept going.
Clearly, he thought she had lost her mind. She couldn't blame him, really. To his nineteenth century mind, she had been spouting gibberish ever since she walked into his house.
Uninvited.
The memory made her want to melt into the darkness and disappear. In spite of that, the house jogged ever-closer in her field of vision—or at least as much of it as she could glimpse over Matt Chance's broad shoulder—as he kept moving toward it. His determination was true to his legend; she would give him that much. He seemed every bit a man who got what he wanted. And right now, he wanted her. Inside.
Actually, that was probably a good idea, Haley decided. She could return the perfume bottle to its rightful place, and get the heck out of Matt's time—and his life—before he even knew what hit him. As soon as she could slip out of sight, that's what she would do.
But she could hardly slip out of sight if he kept insisting on carrying her around. "You can put me down now, Tarzan. I can walk on my own."
"It's Matt." He kept going. "I noticed you run pretty good, too."
Haley bit back a smile. Orange-hued firelight flickered through the windows as they passed beneath the eaves of the house and neared the front door. If anything, his arms tightened around her. She wondered if he was smiling, too.
"I won't run this time."
"Mmm-hmm."
They reached the door, and he put her down, setting her gently on her feet. Even as her sling-back mules touched the stone entryway, Matt kept his hands on her arms. She supposed he was making sure she was steady before releasing her, but when he moved closer, a sudden, inexplicable sense of anticipation filled her.
"No, you won't run this time." He slid his hand upward, cradling her cheek in his palm. She couldn't breathe, couldn't move. The feel of his strong, masculine hand on her skin was all she could think of. Slowly, his thumb brushed her temple, gently enough to make her sigh.
"I don't know what happened to you before, but it's me you're dealing with now." Matt lowered his hand again and reached for the doorknob. "You're not leaving here until I say so."
Lord help her, but she loved the sound of that. To be wanted, to be needed in the sense his words implied, was all Haley had ever wanted. Could it be that she had traveled back in time to find it? That she had been given some magical, miraculous, chance to be granted her heart's desire after all?
The possibility made her tingle with excitement as the door whisked open. An instant later, two children—a boy and a girl—tumbled over the threshold. The girl, wearing old-fashioned wire-framed eyeglasses, a long flannel nightgown, and a guilty expression that probably meant she had been listening through the closed door, spoke first.
"Papa!" She threw her arms around Matt's middle and hugged him tight. "Me and Jacob heard a sound like a scream. Are you hurt?"
He patted her hair, smoothing the tangled dark strands away from her worried-looking small face. " 'Course I'm not hurt. I was outside collecting Miss Madison. She took a spill near the hillside, and needs some doctoring up."
"Miss Madison?" The girl scrunched her nose and leaned back, being careful to shelter the little boy behind her with her skinny, girlish body. Her gaze fell on Haley, and her skeptical expression was heartbreakingly apparent. "Another new nanny?"
"Maybe," Matt said.
"Hurray!" Jacob shouted, shoving his sister out of the way. "Move, Becca! I want to see her, too."
Haley only caught a glimpse of the boy's eager, rounded face before Matt's hands descended onto both children's heads. He turned them around and marched them inside. "Later. Right now, I'm taking Miss Madison to the kitchen to get her cleaned up."
The three of them stepped into the foyer. Matt glanced over his shoulder and saw Haley still standing alone on the threshold. Keeping a child cradled close on either side of him, he turned to face her. "Come in. My home is your home."
The children watched expectantly. They clung to Matt, all three of them silhouetted in the light from the opened doorway, as though he were an island in the midst of their young lives. Or maybe it only seemed that way because he held on to them so tightly. In that moment, Haley realized why she had been brought there.
They were the family she had never had.
And they needed her so much.
"O-okay," she whispered, her voice suddenly vanished beneath the wealdi of emotions she felt. Longing, and gratitude ... and a sudden wariness, too. There was no telling how much time she would be given. “But I can only stay for a little while."
Matt's lips tightened. He offered her his hand, though, probably playing the gallant for his children's sake, and helped her through the doorway. The next thing she knew, she was part of their small circle.
"My home is yours," he said again. "At least for tonight."
CHAPTER FIVE
There was nothing like a kitchen to arouse a woman's curiosity, Matt decided later. It had taken a while to get the children upstairs in their beds, the gabby housekeeper and cook sent back to their rooms, and Miss Madison settled on a chair at his long pine kitchen table. Now that he had her there, he wasn't sure how he would ever persuade her to leave. If her enthralled expression was anything to go by, there was nothing Haley Madison liked more than cast-iron cookstoves, water pumps, wood piles, and storage bins.
"Everything is the newest design, right down to the hot water reservoir on the cookstove." He dipped the cloth he had been using into the basin of water on the table, then wrung it out. Hunkering down beside her chair, he pressed the cloth to Haley's scraped-up elbow. "The best money could buy."
Silence greeted his comment. He could have kicked himself for bragging to her. He was no green boy, needing to impress a woman with the things he owned.
Was he?
"I like it," she said softly. She smiled at him, then tilted her head toward the open shelves, colored canisters, and chinaware surrounding them. "It's cozy. You can tell a lot of living goes on in here."
Her approval pleased him more than he wanted it to. She was only staying for a little while—she had said as much herself. He didn't know why he hadn't turned over her care to the housekeeper like he had planned. He had to be ten kinds of fool for touching her himself.
"It looks like the children even help sometimes, judging by the little floury handprints over there."
Matt glanced at the marble-topped worktable near the cookstove and noticed its flour-dusted surface for the first time. The cook should have cleaned it. He wasn't paying her to lollygag around, playing pretending games with the children.
Haley smiled up at him. "Do Rebecca and Jacob like to bake?"
"I wouldn't know."
He felt the strength of her gaze on him. Her interest stirred up a whole mess of feelings better left untouched. Like needing. And wanting. What the hell had possessed him to invite her into his house for the night?
Her smile widened. "No, I don't suppose a man like you knows how to cook."
The tips of his ears grew hot. Damn it, had she made him blush? "Cooking is women's work. I've got a mine to run."
She raised her head, and Matt sensed she was looking over the kitchen furnishings again. He told himself it didn't matter that she was more interested in frying pans than in him.
Then he told himself he was a liar.
He wet the cloth and twisted it hard. Frowning, he ducked his head and concentrated on finishing the job at hand. Soap, stroke, rinse, wring. It couldn't be that hard.
Except Haley's skin was the softest thing he had touched in what seemed half a lifetime, and the scent of her was something he couldn't help but savor. She smelled of flowers and woman and—
"Your wife must have loved this kitchen."
—and old dreams he was too bullheaded to give up on.
"Eugenie loved the whole house," he said, dropping the cloth into the water for the last time. He stood, feeling the muscles in his legs stretch after so long kneeling beside her chair. It had been a very thorough washing. "So did all the other nannies. Didn't stop them from leaving. That's why I need another one."
Matt grabbed the bowl and stomped toward the sink with it. Lantern light washed over the basin, its glow casting into bold relief the expensive china pattern hand-picked by his wife. His fingers tightened on the edge. Suddenly, he couldn't think of a single reason not to hurl the whole thing to the floor, not to smash to pieces every fancy, useless thing he owned.
Haley's hand on his arm stopped him. "Thanks for taking care of me."
He set the basin aside and turned to see her standing behind him. She kept her head bent, concentrating on tugging down the sleeves of her shirt to cover her elbows again. For such a strong woman, she seemed strangely vulnerable somehow, with her dark, curled hair falling over her scrawny shoulders and the peculiar, defensive way of standing she had.
She needed to be ready to run, Matt figured. The same way she had run from him before.
The realization irked the hell out of him.
"You need some real clothes," he said, grabbing the unbuttoned edge of her shirt. "No nanny dresses like this. I'll get you something else to wear."
He held her shirt away from her body to assess her figure. The plain-looking camisole she had on underneath didn't conceal much. The curve of her breasts and the dusky hue of her nipples were faintly visible through the fabric. They tightened beneath his gaze, and her response was enough to make his mouth go dry.
Are you here for the job . . . or for me?
Suddenly, Matt hoped she had come for him.
But he doubted that was the case. She snatched her shirt from his hand and whipped both sides together across her body, folding her arms over her chest to cover herself.
"I have real clothes already."
"Mmm-hmm. In the morning, you'll have more. I'll tell the housekeeper to leave some suitable things in your room."
Maybe something modest and dowdy and ugly would help him keep his hands off her until she left.
Somehow, Matt doubted it.
"Don't do me any favors. I'm perfectly happy in my own clothes. With my own things."
She went back to her chair and snatched up her dirty satchel from the floor beside it, probably intending to show him exactly how much she valued her beat-up canvas bag. If her tight-fisted grasp on the thing was any indication, her satchel held everything Haley owned in the world.
And it wasn't much.
"Besides, I never said I'd take the job. That makes my clothes none of your business, doesn't it? You've already done enough."
Sorting through her satchel, she bent farther, offering him an excellent view of the rest of her, too. She might not have much in the way of material belongings, but the woman did possess a mighty fine figure.
"I'm making it my business. Don't tempt me to dress you myself."
Haley straightened, saw where his gaze was directed, and narrowed her eyes. "I should probably warn you. I'm not like most of the women you're used to, Mr. Chance."
"It's Matt." He moved closer, urged forward by something he didn't understand and didn't much care to contemplate. "And I can see that for myself. Question is, if you're so all-fired different from the rest, why did you come here?"
She paled and took a step backward, hugging her satchel tighter. Her chin came up at a courageous angle. "I—I didn't really have a choice, actually."
"No?"
She licked her lips. "No. It was like some kind of Back to the Future thing. One minute I was in my Jeep, and the next . . . poof!"
Flinging her hands in the air to demonstrate, Haley nearly sent her satchel flying. Matt reached for it, took it from her hands and tucked it beneath his elbow for safekeeping.
"I'd better hold this for you," he said. Then, "Poof?"
Giving him a wary look, she nodded. "Not precisely 'poof,' but the effect was near enough." With trembling fingers, she tucked her hair behind her ear and gazed up at him. She frowned. "You must think I'm crazy."
"I think maybe you hit your head when I grabbed you at the edge of the ridge." / think you're beautiful. "And I think maybe I ought to have sent for the doctor after all."
"No! Look, maybe I'd better just leave."
Plainly intending to do just that—in the dark, alone, and injured—she reached for her satchel. Matt held it out of reach, moving nearer to examine her head for bumps or bruises.
"If you want to leave," he said, "you can go in the morning, when it's light out and safe to walk back down the hillside. Until then, I have more than enough room for you here."
He swept her hair from her temple. She held stock-still as he peered at the clear, pink-tinged skin he had revealed. Then, as though she had sensed what he would find, Haley straightened and pinned him with a knowing look.
"See? I'm fine."
She couldn't be fine. She had to be injured, to be talking the way she was. Frowning, Matt smoothed his hand across her forehead, checking for fever, then gently tilted her head to see the other side. "What is a Jeep?"
"A car."
"Car."
"Automobile?"
He lowered his hand and smiled at her. "You're not sure what it is, either."
"It's a . . . carriage."
"I didn't see a carriage. Most times when Mabel sends a girl up here, she just walks up from the general store at the foot of the hill. Did someone deliver you here?"
She laughed. "You could say that. Look, if you give me my stuff”—she swiped at her satchel and missed when he yanked it backward—"I'll just get out of your hair for the night. In the morning, you probably won't even remember I was here."
"You're tired? I'll show you your room. And I'll give you this"—he raised her satchel—"upstairs. No reason for you to carry it yourself, especially after that fall you took."
She put her hands on her hips. "When you tackled me, you mean."
"When I saved your life, I mean. Follow me."
He stepped through the kitchen doorway and heard her sigh behind him. "I'm not a damsel in distress, here. I go to the gym three times a week, for Pete's sake! Can I just have my bag, please?"
Matt kept going, trusting her to come along. Although she kept right on yammering about the "gym," whatever that was, her voice didn't fade away. That meant that at the least, she had followed him. It was the most cooperation he had earned from her all night.
Feeling pleased, Matt stopped at the foot of the stairs leading to the bedrooms. "I'll give it to you upstairs."
"Now." She made another grab. And missed.
Grinning, he dangled the satchel by one of its looped fabric handles, just out of reach. He hadn't felt so light-hearted in years. Hadn't taken time for teasing or enjoyment in at least that long. It felt good.
Haley feinted to the left, jerked right, and successfully caught hold of a satchel handle. Looking triumphant, she yanked it out of his hands before he realized what she had meant to do. "See? I've got your number already."
She was right. She wasn't like the other women he had known. That much was evident in the unexpected way she had outmaneuvered him—and in the sassy sway of her hips as she breezed past him and preceded him up the stairs.
She was, he realized, the first woman who hadn't promised to stay. The first who hadn't filled him with lies and flattery and pleading for the sake of a position she would abandon in a matter of days or weeks.
She was, he discovered as he watched her sashay out of sight onto the landing, the first who had tempted him into wanting a woman's loving again. And not even knowing how foolhardy it would be to lie with her was enough to change that wanting.
He felt like a starving man at a banquet table, both hands filled with gold-plated cutlery ... and no plate to hold anything long enough to taste it. For a man who had everything, suddenly he felt empty as hell.
Maybe Haley was meant to change all that. Curious despite himself, Matt loped up the stairs behind her. On the landing at the second floor, he caught her elbow. The skinny, vulnerable feel of it made his chest squeeze. Damn, but the woman needed more than the satchel of broken belongings she had set at her feet to get by in the world.
"Haley ..."
She glanced up at him, her gaze questioning.
"Do you have anyplace else to go?"
"What?"
"You heard me."
She stared down the long stretch of dimly lit hallway looming to their left. Her shoulders rose as she breathed deeply, then met his gaze head-on. "There's always someplace else to go," she said. "Don't worry. I'm used to leaving."
"I'm used to being left. That's not what I asked you."
With a weary sigh, Haley passed her hand over her forehead. She pressed her lips closer together, and her gaze went to her satchel again.
He kicked it out of reach before she could make another grab. She didn't want to talk about whatever she had left behind. That was right as rain with him. He kept too much hidden himself to have any interest in digging up somebody else's secrets. But he would be damned if he would turn a lone woman onto the streets of Landslide in the middle of a cold spring night.
Or any night at all.
"If you want it, the nanny job is yours."
She gave him a wary look. "You don't even know me."
"That's easily remedied." He pulled her closer, heard her quick, indrawn breath as their bodies met, and surprised himself with a sudden, keen need to keep her near.  The warm, soft feel of her was as welcome as coming home after a hard day's labor . . . and twice as tempting.
Temptation was the last thing he needed. Rather than think about it, Matt gave her his most rakish grin. "See? I think I know you better already."
"Better than most," she agreed, straight-faced in the wake of his teasing. "Not as well as some."
Matt didn't know why that notion should bother him, but it did. The thought of her with another man—maybe with many other men—made him squeeze her a little tighter. There was no point in denying it. He wanted her for himself.
"Tough talk, coming from the world's most solitary single woman, huh?" she said, leavening the words with a quirk of her lips. "To hear me talk, you'd think my dance card is full from here to next Tuesday."
"That's not so long."
"It is from where I'm standing."
She ducked her head, giving her feet—and their bizarre shoes—a wry grin. The motion sent a lock of dark hair over her eyes. Haley raised her hand to smooth it away, but Matt got there first. He lifted the spiraled, silken strands in his fingers and tucked them gently behind her ear.
Her laughter faded. She shivered at the gesture, then quickly stepped back. At that moment, it didn't matter how many men she might have known before. Clear as creek water, Haley Madison was a woman unused to being touched.
At least with an open hand.
He smiled at her, hoping to lighten the mood again. "But we can get acquainted more gradually, if you want."
Haley bit her lip, drawing his gaze to the fullness there. For a painted lady, she seemed surprisingly innocent.
"I'm not sure how long I can stay, remember? I don't want you to think—"
"I think you'll tell me when you have to leave. Won't you?"
She looked at her satchel again, then down the hallway. She nodded.
"Then you can have the job on that condition. Deal?"
It occurred to him, as he held out his hand to her, that he must be insane to hire a woman he knew nothing about. A woman who made his blood run hotter and his mind turn to things beyond mining and money and duty. But Mabel had sent Haley just like she had sent all the others in the past few years. Surely she wouldn't have chosen a nanny who really was unsuitable.
Besides, something about the woman in front of him made him trust her. Matt didn't understand it, couldn't explain it... so he simply accepted it. Some things a man wasn't meant to fight. A wild-haired, oddly dressed beauty with lonely eyes and the curves of a woman was surely among them.
Slowly, Haley eased her hand into his. He smiled, and her grip strengthened. "Yes, it's a deal."
"Good." God, he felt like laughing aloud. Maybe whatever had addled her brains was catching.
Her mere presence made him feel lighthearted, as though a line had been cast into the depths he had been living in for so long. All at once, Matt wanted nothing more than to grab tight to that line and hang on.
There was no way in hell it could last. It never had, never would. But he was just fool enough to take hold anyway.
"Good," she echoed.
She started to slip her hand from his. Instead, Matt tightened his hold and pulled her closer.
"One more thing."
"What?"
He tilted her face upward and gave her his most serious look. "I will remember you were here, Haley. No matter how soon you leave." He felt a smile curve his lips. "I don't think I could forget you if I tried."
Despite her answering smile, her eyes looked sad. "That's what everyone says. But you won't be able to help it." Blowing out a deep breath, she looked past him down the hallway and wrinkled her nose. "I think that's just the way it works."
"Not this time."
"Every time," she said sharply. "I ought to know."
Or at least she had known. Matt looked at her silently for a moment. Then he grabbed her bag again and started off down the hallway.
"You've never dealt with me before," he called over his shoulder. "You just might be surprised."
He had a feeling she wouldn't be the only one.
CHAPTER SIX
Haley awoke to the sound of muffled footsteps running past her room. Must be hotel guests, hurrying to catch early morning flights, she decided hazily. She grabbed a handful of bedclothes and turned on her side, hoping to fall asleep again. The feel of the cushy mattress yawning beneath her, combined with the unexpectedly soft bedclothes, brought her awake instead.
This was no ordinary hotel room bed. Either she had been magically whisked to a fancy Verde Valley resort while she slept ... or she was still stranded in the past.
The thought sent a mixture of fear and anticipation through her. Okay, calm down, she told herself. If you’re still stuck in the nineteenth century, maybe it's simply meant to be. Nothing to worry about there.
Eyes closed, Haley tried to calm herself by concentrating on her surroundings. She thought of the softness of the bed beneath her, the warmth of the all-cotton covers, the scent of brewed coffee that filled the air. It occurred to her to be grateful that they at least had coffee in the nineteenth century, and someone who knew how to make it. No. Focus, she told herself. This was getting her nowhere.
Maybe what she needed were specifics. Smaller details.  She felt the prick of a feather sticking through the pillow beneath her cheek, listened to the musical call of a bird outside. She tried to enjoy the utter lack of traffic sounds, television, and ringing phones. She tried to ignore the depressing realization that in the nineteenth century, a double latte was definitely out of the question.
Yikes. Maybe she just wasn't the meditative type.
She opened her eyes to find herself in the same sage green room she had glimpsed on her twentieth century tour of the Chance mansion. Except this time, everything was authentic. The bed she had slept in was a four-poster draped in floral hangings, and the walls surrounding her were painted, trimmed with ornate white crown molding, and decorated with what looked like hand-painted water-colors in gilt frames.
No electrical outlets punctuated the space above the baseboards; no nearby side door led to a convenient guest bathroom. The only other furnishings were a long, carved wood bureau, a washstand with porcelain basin and pitcher, and a straight chair. It seemed to be piled high with an assortment of clothes.
Unfamiliar clothes. Her own comfy khakis and shirt, Haley noticed, were conspicuously absent.
I'll tell the housekeeper to leave some suitable things in your room, Matt Chance had told her.
Well, she guessed, he had done that, and more. All she had left were the tank top and panties she had slept in, and those wouldn't last forever. What if she never got back to her own time? At some point, she would have to adapt to current clothing standards—corsets and petticoats and dresses every single day.
Eeek.
On the other hand, maybe she could go back to her own time ... if she returned the perfume bottle. And although part of her wanted nothing more than to stay with Matt and his children, to find out if she really could be a part—even a small one—of the kind of family she had dreamed of, the rest of her knew that she didn't belong with them any more than she had belonged with the dozens of families who had taken her in as a child.
The only right thing to do was to put the perfume bottle back in Eugenie Chance's room. Chances were, if she did that, she would wind up in her own time before anyone thought to ask where she had come from in the first place.
And before anyone thought to ask her to leave.
Throwing back the bedclothes, Haley stepped onto the braided rag rug covering the floor and looked around for her tote bag. It was nowhere in sight.
She stuck her hands on her hips and scanned the room again, noticing the vase of red geraniums on the bureau, the bedside lamp, the wooden combs and brushes arrayed on the washstand. Her gaze swiveled back to the geraniums. Those hadn't been there last night when she had gone to sleep.
Hmmm. No tote bag, though. She bent over to flip back the covers and look under the bed for it.
In the murky depths, something moved.
Shrieking, Haley leapt backward. Her heart pounded. So did the bed frame. What in the world. . . ?
Several thumps later, a boyish, brown-haired head poked out from beneath the dust ruffle. Jacob's face grinned up at her. "Surprise!" he shouted gleefully.
At her half-dressed self.
"Jacob!" Suddenly conscious of her tank top and underwear getup, Haley grabbed for cover. Luckily, the blanket was in reach. She snatched up a handful, dragged it off the bed, and draped it around her shoulders. "Umm, good morning."
Grinning, he pointed to her blanket. "You look like an Indian."
She held up her hand, palm facing him. "How," she said solemnly.
He giggled, and the sound was enough to make her heart sing. She had done that, Haley realized. She had made a little boy happy enough to laugh out loud. Feeling a sense of pride she had never imagined, she laughed, too.
"What were you doing under there, mighty, ahhh, mighty warrior Jacob?" she asked, doing her best to keep up their Indian game. It made her feel silly . .. and, in a time and place that weren't her own, happier than she had a right to be. "Were you scouting for enemies?"
"You're not the enemy. You're the nanny. My papa said so."
He scrambled to his feet, apparently oblivious to the dust bunnies clinging to his too-short pants legs. His eyes shined up at her, as blue as his father's were—but twice as trusting. And twice as mischievous. "I was just surprising you. I really gotcha, didn't I?"
"You sure did."
Looking pleased, Jacob grabbed his suspenders and pulled them away from his faded checked shirt. He rocked back on his heels, in a fairly good imitation of—Haley guessed—his father. "I sneaked in while Miss Olivia was bringing in your clothes," he confided, glancing toward her room's closed door. "She never even saw me."
"That's quite a trick."
He beamed.
"Under the bed is a good place to hide, isn't it? So long as nobody really big sits on top and squishes you."
He laughed again. "You're not so big."
"No, not so big." Not after all the laps she had logged running on the gym's treadmill, Haley thought wryly, sitting on the bed so she could talk to him eye-to-eye. "But, warrior Jacob, I have hidden under heap plenty big beds in my time. That makes me mighty wise about them."
His eyes widened. "You hide under the bed, too?"
She nodded. "I used to." Whenever it was time for me to move on to the next family.
She had never been able hide herself well enough, though. They had always found her, and they had always made her leave. At least now, as an adult, she could choose for herself when to go.
"Then you must have had a lot of nannies, I guess. Just like me and Becca."
"Something like that." Could you call moving into a new foster home every few months having a lot of nannies? Somehow, she doubted it.
A change of subject—or at least of focus—was definitely called for. "How many nannies have you and your sister had?"
He cocked his head to one side and appeared to think about it. She couldn't help but smile at his solemn expression.
"Ummm, well, Miss Mabel usually finds a new nanny for us after church on Sundays. Becca says it's her Christian duty." Jacob shrugged. "And then they come live up here with us for a while. 1 don't know how many."
He hopped up on one foot, then the next, growing absorbed in some new game. He held his arms to the sides for balance.
"Every Sunday?" Haley asked.
He shrugged. "Mostly it's the special Sundays, when Reverend Thomas takes up the collection things."
Quickly, she thought back on what she knew of Landslide's church-going population. According to archived newspaper accounts, collections of money for the poor had been taken weekly, with a special donation of clothes and food made twice a year.
"But that means ..." A new nanny every six months. Her heart squeezed tight as the realization struck her. No wonder Matt Chance had seemed so cynical when she had turned up at his house uninvited last night. He had probably been trying out new caregivers for his children for months and months now. Maybe years, depending on how long it had been since his wife's death.
And every last one had deserted them.
Eugenie loved the whole house, he had said last night. So did all the other nannies. Didn't stop them from leaving.
Jacob hopped backward toward the lace-curtained window, looking over his shoulder at the early morning sunlight streaming inside. He grabbed his foot and hopped higher, apparently aiming for the broad, white-painted sill. Haley was about to ask him to come closer to the bed, away from the second-story window, when he stopped and squinted up at her.
"But maybe you can stay longer, huh?" he asked. "Just a little bit?"
His expression, half-hopeful and half-doubting, seared its way into her heart. She knew what that expression meant. She had worn it too many times herself not to. This was just the first time she had seen it on anyone else, and it was enough to make her yearn to stay, if only to make him happy.
If only to convince him that the people who cared for him would be there when he needed them.
"I'll be extra good, I promise," Jacob said rapidly, before she could speak. "I even bringed you some—"
The tap-tap of footsteps coming down the hallway outside her bedroom door cut short his words. Haley looked toward the sound. So did he.
"It's gotta be Becca," he whispered, his rounded, freckled face turning fearful. "She's looking for me, 'cause I dug in her part of the flower garden."
Haley's gaze went to the red geraniums on her bureau. Looking at them now, she could see that the blossoms were a little worse for the wear. They had been crookedly shoved into the vase, and some of the petals had already fallen off, probably for lack of water.
But whatever artistry that flower arrangement lacked, it was more than made up for in caring. He had hoped to win over his new nanny with a gift of flowers, she realized. And he had even risked his sister's wrath to do it.
Haley looked up at Jacob, then patted the mattress beside her. "Come on!"
At his puzzled frown, she lifted the covers and motioned for the boy to crawl underneath. "You can hide in here."
He nibbled his lips, casting another worried glance toward the door. "It's no use. Becca always finds me."
"Well, that's got to change someday. Come on—she won't find you this time."

CHAPTER SEVEN
"Okay."
Jacob grinned and jumped in bed, just as the first tentative knock came on the door.
"Miss Haley?" called Rebecca. "You up?"
"Just a minute." She hefted the blankets atop Jacob's small, wriggling body, doing her best to arrange them in concealing peaks and valleys. "Keep quiet and don't move," she whispered to him. Then, more loudly, "Come in!"
The door creaked open, pushing something aside in its wake. Her tote bag, Haley saw. At least she still had her things, if not her clothes.
Rebecca's face, framed by her glasses, straight dark bangs, and twin braided pigtails, peeked inside. "I'm powerful sorry, Miss Haley. I don't mean to disturb you, but it is nearly seven o'clock, after all."
As though sleeping past daybreak was criminal. "That's all right," Haley said. "Why don't you come on in?"
"In your room?" The girl looked aghast. "Papa wouldn't approve. And I'm sure Miss Olivia wouldn't, either."
"Then we won't tell them. Come on."
Rebecca looked farther into the room, as though searching for something, then glanced over her shoulder. When she turned her face to the front again, a small smile tilted her lips. "All right, but just for a minute."
She slipped inside and closed the door behind her, looking curiously at the tote bag on the floor. Then she stepped past it, giving it a wide berth. The mid-calf-length skirt of her fancy, ribbon-trimmed dress swayed with the movement, then settled when she came to a stop at the bed's footboard.
"If anyone catches me, I'll just tell them this was your idea," she announced. She ran her hand up one of the cherry wood posts and gave Haley a sideways glance. "I'll say you told me to do it."
It was a test, Haley realized. A test to see how far she could push the new nanny. The only trouble was, she had no idea how far she could be pushed. She had never been anyone's nanny before. Too bad Doctor Spock hadn't set up shop yet.
She would just have to wing it.
"You could decide to do that, I suppose," she said carefully. "I'd be sad if your father made me leave already." What was she saying? She had no choice but to leave! "But if that's what you want, I—"
"We don't need a nanny anyhow. I'm big enough to do it myself."
Bingo. Haley looked at the defiant tilt of the child's small, stubborn chin, looked at the fists her little hands made around the bed posts, and understood better than she wanted to. It was like looking in the mirror.
Rebecca didn't want to depend on anyone but herself.
"You're right. You do seem pretty competent. Maybe I ought to leave, after all."
"Nooo!" came a muffled wail from beneath the covers. Jacob started squirming his way out, and Rebecca's gaze went straight to the churning blankets. Her eyes narrowed.
Haley coughed to cover the sound and shoved one hand beneath the quilt as unobtrusively as she could. After a few seconds, she found the boy's warm, flannel-shirted back and patted him gently.
"But on the other hand, I might do all right. .. with a little help."
"Help?" Rebecca took hold of one of her long braids and flipped it through her fingers, making rhythmic passes like the baton twirlers Haley had admired as a girl.'' Grownups don't need any help. My papa doesn't need any help at all."
Biting her lip, she twisted her braid a little more slowly, as though she were thinking things over more carefully, then dropped it. "Not one teeny, tiny bit."
"I'll bet there are times even he wishes he could ask for help. Nobody can get by all on their own."
Who was she trying to kid? She had been getting by on her own for as long as she could remember. There was no point in disillusioning poor Rebecca, though. It didn't have to be that way for her. She had a family who loved her.
"My papa does." The girl rocked back on her heels and gave the bed covers a closer look. "Someday, Jacob and I will, too. We won't need anything from anybody."
Rebecca scrunched up her nose and glanced up. "Not even from another nanny," she said pointedly.
She must have been hurt too much to even want to trust someone again, Haley realized. Just like Matt.
"Maybe," Haley said. "That's why I've been thinking about getting some help. You don't need just another nanny. You need the greatest nanny, ever."
What was she doing? She couldn't stay here, couldn't make promises she wouldn't be able to keep. But a second glance at Rebecca's worried frown and sad eyes kept her talking.
The child deserved a chance to believe in caring that lasted.
"Do you know anyone who could show me what it takes to be a good nanny?"
Rebecca's head shot up, her eyes widening. Almost instantly, her look of surprise was replaced with one of thoughtfulness. The idea appealed to her; Haley could tell.
"Papa's too busy to do it," she finally said. "He's got a whole big mine to run." She thought about it some more, looking wistful. " 'Sides, raising babies and taking care of little kids is women's work."
"Who says?"
"My, papa."
"Oh, really?" Maybe if Matt Chance abandoned that attitude as easily as he had apparently abandoned his children's care to nannies, he wouldn't need to hire someone like her.
On the other hand, Haley reminded herself, it couldn't have been easy for a nineteenth century man to raise two children on his own. In his time and place, especially for a man of Matt's social stature, nannies were an accepted fact of life. In his mind, he probably figured he had done the right thing.
Well, maybe she could change his mind.
Rebecca nodded. "Yes, he does. There's Miss Olivia, too, but she's stuck in the washroom most of the time. And Miss Jolie's only interested in cooking." Her shoulders slumped. "There's nobody."
"What about you?"
"Me?"
"Might as well go straight to the expert."
Her shoulders straightened. A small glimmer of pride shone in her eyes. "You think I'm an expert?"
Haley nodded. "Who else knows more about this family?"
"Nobody!"
"Okay, then."
Rebecca bounced up on her toes, making her dress flounce higher in her excitement. "You mean it?"
"Yes, I do." And even more, Haley vowed in that moment. She would have sworn the sky was purple if it put the roses back in the girl's cheeks. Judging by the paleness there now, for Rebecca, the spring had been too long coming.
She blinked back the sting of tears that rose in her eyes and focused on Rebecca. "And I'd like it very much if you'd start helping me out first thing this morning. I have some, uhhh, necessities to take care of first."
The girl caught Haley's meaningful glance toward the chamber pot in the corner, and dropped her gaze quickly. "I'll meet you downstairs, all right?"
"See you then."
In a flurry of skirts and pigtails, Rebecca rushed out and slammed the door. The sound was still reverberating throughout the room when Jacob poked his head out from beneath the covers.
He tossed them back. Grinning, red-faced from lack of oxygen, he sat up on his heels and whooped. "You sure fooled her! Becca forgot all about lookin' for me!"
Haley smiled back. "Yes, she did. And I forgot all about thanking you for that beautiful bouquet. Nobody's ever given me flowers before."
Leaning over, he gave her a quick, impulsive hug. It nearly crushed the air from her lungs, but she didn't care a bit.
"Nobody's ever hidden me from Becca before," Jacob told her, his voice muffled against the blankets still between them. "I knew it! You're gonna be the best nanny of all!"
/ hope I'm the last nanny of all. The thought came unbidden, and was all the more startling because of it. / hope I can stay.
No, she couldn't hope for that, Haley told herself. She didn't belong here. Matt and his children had lost enough, between Eugenie Chance's death and the desertion of all those nannies. She couldn't bear the thought of adding to the disappointments the family had already been through by abandoning them—like all the others had— when it was time to return to her own time.
But, increasingly, neither could she bear the thought of leaving them behind.
You'll have to.
Just a little longer, she prayed, watching Jacob scamper from the bed and head for the door. He turned to flash her another grin before leaving, and it was all Haley could do not to snatch him back for one last hug. Just one small, openhearted gesture to carry with her when it was time to leave.
But then he opened the door and ducked into the hallway, and her chance disappeared along with him.
Just a little love, she had wished in her own time, cradling that magical perfume bottle in her hands for the first time. Just once, and I'll never ask for more.
Turned out, she had been lying to herself all along.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Matt didn't know how she had done it, but by the time a week had passed, it felt as though Haley had been with them forever. It shouldn't have been possible for her to become a part of his family so completely. Especially in so short a time. But somehow, she had done it.
The efficiency and care she had brought with her was like a tonic for them all. The dark corners of their lives disappeared, filled by Haley as easily as she had filled the house with vases of wildflowers and happy voices. It was as though her laughter had called in the springtime, and Jacob and Becca basked in her warmth like flowers turning toward the sun.
For a woman who couldn't stay long, Haley was doing a hell of a job of making sure they couldn't do without her.
He frowned at the thought and smoothed his hands over the newly drawn map on his lap, trying to concentrate on the mine shaft plans he had brought home. Instead, his thoughts centered on flowery perfume, boy-sized britches, and the stubborn, independent woman who wore them.
Damned if she hadn't dug her own clothes out of Olivia's washtub herself, and went right on wearing them. Not to town, and not every day, but often enough so Matt knew it didn't matter what fancy things he could give her. Haley meant to keep something of her own.
Just like she meant to be ready to run.
Still.
Hell. Rolling his shoulders to ease the kinks out, Matt stared toward the fire. It provided the only heat in the cavernous living room, and most of the light. Right now, it burned as hot as the smelter fire he kept smoldering night and day near the mine. Given the size of that fire, he couldn't help but wonder why he still felt cold.
Footsteps tapped into the room, then, "Oh!"
At the sound of her voice, he looked up. Haley stood just beyond the doorway, both arms filled with a thin, square sheet of pine board and the assortment of things she had piled atop it.
"I didn't know you were home already," she said, turning toward the foyer again. "I'll take this to the kitchen instead."
"Wait."
She stopped, but didn't turn to face him. Matt couldn't blame her. He had been avoiding her all week, leaving for the mine as soon as possible after their shared meals, keeping their conversations as infrequent as he could, and staying in his office until late at night.
It had been the only sure-fire way to keep his hands to himself, but the last thing he meant to do was tell Haley that. Or to tell her how the thought of her had haunted him, tantalized him, since the night they had met. Talk like that could only lead her into expecting more than he could give. Instead, he looked toward the board she held so tight.
"What is that?"
Her shoulders stiffened.
Prickly. He couldn't blame her for that, either, given the harsh way he probably sounded. It had been too long since he had tried making conversation with anyone besides mine workers. Talking to a woman like Haley called for more than cusswords and ribald jokes served over whiskey.
He tried to soften his tone. "I'm curious, is all. You don't have to tell me."
She glanced over her shoulder, still poised to leave. The firelight gilded her features, highlighting her hair's dark curls and the smooth, straight line of her nose. "It's not that I don't want to tell you. I just—"
"And you don't have to leave."
Her mouth snapped shut. She balanced the board against her hip and turned all the way around. "It's just that you're a private kind of man, and all this week you've been—"
"I've been alone." Saying it out loud sounded pathetic. He should have kept his damned mouth shut. Frowning, Matt looked away from her.
“Which was exactly what I needed to get my work done," he went on, rolling up his map and setting it aside. It was long past dark anyway. The mine wouldn't crumble into dust if he took a single night off from thinking about it "Now that I'm finished, I could use some company."
He glanced up. Her hands had gone slack on the board while she stared at him—looking dumbstruck, if he didn't miss his guess.
Had women always responded to him this way? Or was it only Haley who found the notion of spending time alone with him so all-fired astonishing? The pain he felt at the possibility strengthened his resolve—and roughened his voice all over again.
"Since you haven't worked long enough to earn your first pay, I guess you got those supplies out of my woodshed." He folded his arms and nodded toward the board, paint, and assorted-sized papers she held. "I don't know about where you come from, but around here, that's thieving."
Her eyes widened. Her grip on her supplies strengthened, and he could see her shoulders rise. "Now hold on! I never stole a thing in my life."
She flushed, faltered just long enough for him to wonder what she was hiding, and then went on. "And—and I promised to make this for Rebecca and Jacob, and that's just what I did."
"Looks to me like you did something else. Looks to me like you took advantage of your employer's goodwill."
"What?"
"I reckon you could be in a heap of trouble over something like this."
Leaving her to think that over, Matt stood and went to the fire, driven by habit to add more wood. It seemed he could never build it high enough these days to take away the chill inside him. But when he got there, he realized Haley's presence had already warmed things up considerably.  He smiled, then turned to face her.
She looked wrathy enough to wake snakes.
"You can't be serious! You gave me leave to use whatever I needed for the children, for as long as I'm here, and I—"
"Come on in here and sit down."
"—and I did."
Stubborn woman. "Fine. If you're done having the last word, come on in here."
She hesitated, and her obvious reluctance called to mind what she had just said. He tried to cram those last words of hers out of his head, but it was no use.
For as long as I'm here.
Her leaving was the last thing Matt wanted to be reminded of. The sudden ache in his chest—and his equally tight-fisted grip on the fireplace poker—was enough to tell him that. With as much nonchalance as he could, he replaced the poker in its stand.
He only narrowly avoided dropping the heavy black iron from his damp palm onto the hearth. He rubbed his hand over the leg of his britches, then frowned at it. Damned if his palms weren't sweating as though he were a boy about to steal his first kiss.
He was a man ... a man who wanted a lot more from Haley than the taste of her lips. He wanted the promise of more to come. Like the fool he was, he wanted to hold tight to the one woman who could never be his—at least not for long.	
Haley gave him a meaningful look. "Come in!" she barked, frowning at him in what he guessed was a dead-eye imitation of himself. "Sit down!"
He couldn't help but smile.
"Does this Cro-Magnon routine actually work for you?" she asked. A mischievous grin lit her face. "People don't like being ordered around, Matt."
"Tell that to the five hundred and fifty men who work for me."
Haley laughed. She waved one arm, still balancing her board on her other hip. "Thanks, anyway, but I'll just take this to the kitchen and hang out with the rest of your lowly employees. Don't put yourself out on my account"
She left He could hardly believe his eyes when she disappeared through the doorway leading to the foyer. He, a man who controlled one of the biggest copper mines in the territory, a man who had founded the whole town of Landslide and brought in most of its residents, couldn't even sweet-talk one little woman into spending some time alone with him?
"This house," Matt called after her, "was built to entertain one hundred and fifty people. Comfortably. There's plenty of room in here for you, too."
She appeared in the doorway, eyes sparkling with good humor, her skirts whirling against her legs as she moved. It was still a shock to see her in decent clothing ... a pleasurable one. And the fact that Haley had come back to him at all felt like the biggest victory he had earned all day.
"I know that," she said. "I read about it in the historical society archives before I came here."
"Historical soc—"
Matt stopped, shaking his head. She was still talking about having come to them from the future, still acting as though that was where she was supposed to return to. When she had first mentioned it at breakfast on the morning after her arrival, as a way of explaining her bizarre clothes to Jacob and Rebecca, he had thought she was only teasing. More and more, he realized Haley believed her outlandish story.
But there was no way he could do the same.
"Never mind. Everybody in the Verde Valley has heard about the parties we used to have here, and you must have, too. Just think of this as your first private invitation."
He smiled and stepped back, motioning for her to have a seat on the sofa. She would be warmest mere, in front of the fire, and he would be able to savor the sight of her, limned with firelight and close enough to touch. Anticipation simmered through him as Haley took a step nearer.
He watched her, fighting the need to draw her close, and tried to keep his voice teasing. "Not every lowly employee gets a private invitation, you know."
She stopped, and something akin to pain crossed her face. An uncertainty so raw it hurt him to see it filled her expression. Then she shook her head.
“You're right. And neither should I." Her voice cracked. Her skirts swirled again, as though her need to run had somehow woven itself deep into the fabric and given it a will of its own. "I belong here least of all."
Because she worked for him, Matt figured, trying to follow her reasoning. It wasn't an easy task. Comprehending her feminine logic was like chasing water down the mountainside—slippery, constantly changing course . .. and probably dangerous.
He decided to try another tactic.
"Do you like working for me?" he asked.
He didn't think of it that way, not really. She was more than just the nanny, more than just a desirable woman. More than he had ever dreamed of. But he would do whatever it took to be with her tonight, now that he had set his course on persuading her. Matt Chance hadn't dragged himself out of the filthy, crowded city he had been born in by giving up easily.
She gave him a suspicious glance. "Yes. I've never felt more at home anyplace."
"Fine. Come in here and show me what you did withall my stolen wood."
"It's not stolen! I—" 
"Come sit by the fire with me."
Haley bit her lip, staring at the things in her arms. "Thanks, but I—"
"Do it. Or you're fired."
CHAPTER NINE
Haley's head came up. "Fired?"
"Dismissed."
"Dismissed?"
"Discharged." Matt crossed his arms and thought some more. "Let go. Sent packing." Nodding, he fixed her with a determined glance. "Yep, that's it. Fired."
"Oh. I see."
Suddenly, she smiled. The radiance in her face was something Matt knew he would remember, long after she had gone.
"You're not sure which one it is, either," she said.
Suddenly, he wasn't sure of anything at all. The gleam in her eyes looked positively dangerous, and so did the thoughtful way Haley pursed her lips as she came back into the room.
"I'm sure," he said. Sure I've never been more intrigued by a woman; sure I've never wanted someone close more than I want you right now. "Sure you don't know who you're dealing with."
She stopped midway between his chair and the doorway. "Sounds like a challenge."
"Scared?"
"If I scared that easily, I'd still be in the kitchen screaming for a nonfat no-whip double latte and a takeout pizza."
Whatever that meant.
Matt watched as she plunked her board onto the low table in front of the fire, then got on her knees beside it Paintbrushes and scraps of paper went flying, stirred by the motion of her body. Grinning, Haley looked up at him. "Choose your poison."
He gazed over the array of objects she showed him. A silver thimble. A tiny leather shoe from one of Rebecca's dolls. A small tin horse from Jacob's collection of toy soldiers. A miniature porcelain dog.
He scratched his head. "You wasted good lumber on a toy shelf?"
"It's a game." She scooped up the papers from the floor, shuffled them, and stacked them neatly atop the colored grids painted on the board. "It hasn't been invented yet, but in the future it's pretty popular. Pick a token."
Feeling at a disadvantage, Matt pinched the tin horse between his fingers and dropped it into her waiting palm. "Now what?"
"Now I pick mine." She selected the porcelain dog, then swept the rest of the pieces into her free palm and piled them neatly on a corner of the table. "And in a minute, we play. Do you have any dice?"
Ahhh. Dice, he understood. His enthusiasm for the game increased. He went into the adjoining billiard room, chose the small wooden box that held his dice, and returned to the living room with it
He bent to hold it open toward Haley. "Choose your poison."
Smiling, she selected a pair and tapped the lid closed with her fingertips. From her kneeling position on the rug, she palmed the dice, letting them clink softly together within her grasp. Then her hand touched his wrist.
"You can only play this properly down here," she said, taking the dice box from him with her other hand. She set it out of the way beneath the table and looked up at him. "Have a seat. I've already laid out the game."
She caressed his wrist, tugging gently to urge him downward. The feel of her hand on his skin was as potent a lure as the sight of her, kneeling before him with her pale calico skirts puddled against the dark wool rug. Dressed in fine clothes, with the paint she had worn before scrubbed from her face and her hair loosely twisted at her neck, Haley looked every inch the elegant lady. It was almost enough to make him forget what he knew of women. Almost enough to make him believe that if he made her happy, she might stay with him.
Despite his attempts to isolate himself from the magic surrounding Haley, in only a week she had cracked open his heart. Given much longer, who knew what she would do?
Already she had made him look inside himself and see the solitary man he had become. Even in the midst of his family and the townspeople who respected him, he was used to being alone. Until now, that had never bothered him. It was just the way things were.
Or at least the way they used to be ... until Haley came into his life. And looking at her now, Matt wished to hell he could forget the emptiness she had made him see.
Frowning, he knelt on the rug beside her. He had to shove away those thoughts, those feelings. He would be damned if he would let her see them. She would only try to fill the emptiness, the same way she had filled his house with warmth and light and new laughter. Any fool could see she was a capable woman. Never mind her outlandish notions of having come to him from the future—Haley Madison was a woman who accomplished whatever she set her mind to.
And when she left, she would leave the emptiness behind her.
"Quit frowning. It's not that complicated." She nudged him with her shoulder and gave him an enthusiastic smile. "Every place I ever lived had this game, which means I've probably taught dozens of little kids how to play it with me. A big burly guy like you ought to have no trouble at all."
He looked at the board, painted with a grid that ran several inches wide along all four sides. It was divided into labeled squares, each one marked with the name of a local place or merchant. Mabel's general store was there, among others he recognized; so were the church, the schoolhouse, and Eikelhoff's saloon.
"Nice picture of the Little Lola," he said, rubbing his finger over the hand-painted image of his copper mine's newest head frame. The fact that she had made his mine into a part of her game made him feel ridiculously pleased. "I see you're familiar with the rest of the town, too."
"Of course. I know plenty about the town now, after—"
"Reading about it in the historical society archives, I know. You—"
"No," she interrupted, "after visiting with folks while I was shopping this week with Jacob and Becca."
She slanted him a playful look and straightened the tidy stacks of paper arrayed along her side of the game board. "Actually, there really wasn't much in the archives about Landslide itself. Most of the information was about the mine . . . and you."
"Me? What did it say?"
"Oh, I don't know ... let's see. I think there might have been an article here or there about your resistance to getting started with board games." She rattled the dice and threw them onto the board. "Eight. Looks like I'm going first."
Matt snatched the dice. "Nobody goes first until I know what it said in the—" He stopped and crushed them tighter in his fist. "Hell. Now you've got me believing in your damned archives."
She was silent for a moment; then her hand closed around his fist. "They're as real as you and me, Matt. Believe it."
He couldn't. Wouldn't. But if he tried to tell her. . . . He didn't have the words. Roughly, he thrust his hand into the softness at her nape and pulled her against him instead. Amidst her startled cry, he brought his mouth to hers and crushed whatever else she had meant to say beneath his kiss.
It was like touching the sky, like feeling the mountains shake beneath his feet, like knowing the whole world had fallen away. And not caring if it had. Groaning, Matt dropped the dice and cupped her head in the palm of his hand.
He gentled the kiss, savoring the feel of her lips on his. Nothing could be more real than this. He felt the heat of her body pressed against him, smelled the fragrance of lavender in her hair, understood the pressure of her arms around his neck. It was like nothing he had ever known ... and everything he had always wanted. And it was real enough to touch.
He released her. "That's what I believe in."
Haley leaned back, staring at him, her hands clenched in the folds of her skirt. He looked at her white-knuckled grasp on the fabric and knew, any second now, that she would run like she had before.
Of course, his voice had come out as gently as gravel on granite just now, and if that hadn't been enough to scare her, the kiss itself probably had. A woman liked pretty words and promises, not the kind of raw need he felt when he looked at her. He ought to apologize, ought to make amends before it was too late.
"Haley—"
She gazed directly at him, and in the firelight her eyes were huge and luminous, like those of a woman about to cry. But in their depths, he glimpsed more than tears. He saw surprise and curiosity, an excitement that mirrored his own, and something else . .. regret?
"Matt—"
"Wait."
"But that—but you—"
He had to tell her. Tell her now, before he lost the will to say anything that might keep her from leaving him.
"I'm not a man of words. Let me say my piece." He held himself apart from her, forcing himself to see the impact his next words would have on her. "But I can't regret what I just did. No matter how wrong you think it was."
She jerked as though he had struck her. She turned her head away, gazing into the firelight, but the wrinkled calico beneath her fingers told him all he needed to know. She still wanted to run. Still needed to run. But she was willing to fight that urge.
And she was doing it for him.
It was more than he deserved, and Matt knew it. With trembling fingers, he touched her chin and turned her face toward his. "And I can't regret wanting to do it again."
Her breath caught, held, hitched somewhere in her chest beside the heart she protected so fiercely. Her gaze met steadily with his. If she was afraid of his touch, she gave no sign of it.
"I can't make any promises," Haley said softly. "I know what it's like to be let down. I won't do it to anyone else, not if I can help it. But, Matt, oh, Matt—"
She paused, touched her fingertips to his beard, cradled his jaw in her slender hand. He tilted his head into her palm, unable to do more than close his eyes and savor the feel of her hand on his face. It was like being held in the grasp of an angel, like stealing the sun and holding it close. At that moment, Matt didn't care who or what she thought was waiting for her return.
He wanted her for himself. No matter what he had to do to keep her with him, no matter who or what he had to steal her away from. For the first time in so long, he felt warm inside. He didn't care what it took to hold on to the sunshine.
It made him all the more a fool, but Matt didn't care. She stroked her thumb over the close-clipped edge of his beard, and it was as though he had waited a lifetime for her touch. At least for now, Haley had quit running. Knowing she had stopped for him was enough to humble any man.
Slowly, she lowered her hand. "Oh, Matt," she sighed, and he heard a world of longing and regret in the way she spoke his name. "That kiss ... you need to know something. I just—I know it's wrong, because of your wife and your children and"—she breathed deeply, as though bolstering her courage—"and because I don't really belong here, but I swear to you. I can't regret it, either."
He opened his eyes. He couldn't have heard her right.  Already he had pressed too hard, too far. It had been so long since he had been with a woman that he—
"And I want you to do it again."
The aching, sweetly husky sound of her voice seared through caution, through propriety ... through whatever shreds of self-control he had used to keep himself apart from her. He wanted her, plain and simple. Matt wasn't interested in wondering why.
He pulled her close and kissed her again.
CHAPTER TEN
Matt Chance was one heck of a good kisser, Haley decided later that night. And a pretty fine Monopoly player, as well. No matter if he knew that was what he had been playing or not. He had taken to the game of acquisition and expansion like a duck to water. Like kids to Nintendo. Like Trump to real estate.
Like a lonely woman to a man who embodied everything she had ever wanted.
Falling in love with him had happened in an instant, the moment his lips touched hers and she landed in his strong, warm embrace. Being held by Matt was like the sweetest dream she had ever had.
Unfortunately, like every dream, this one would come to an end. It couldn't last. The good things never did. One day, he would look at her and see inside, and realize she wasn't the woman he really wanted, after all.
Everyone always did.
That was what made it time to leave.
Her soul ached at the thought of leaving Landslide, of leaving behind the family and the man she was growing to care for more deeply with each passing day. Was it so much to ask for, that one day he might begin to—no. No.  Wishing was for someone else, someone who didn't ask for the moon and get transported into another time by mistake.
She hadn't even wished for love in a way that worked. It was far too much to hope for that Matt would see past the truth. Her own parents hadn't wanted her. None of the families that came after them had wanted her for long, either. Why should a man like him be any different?
Haley squeezed her fist tight on the dice and made herself face reality. In some basic way, she was broken. No one could love her for long; no one could give her the sense of belonging she craved. She would have sacrificed everything she had to mend whatever was lacking within her . .. but she had no idea how. The fact was, she didn't belong in Landslide with Matt and his family.
And she never would.
He was a lonely man who wanted company. He had said as much himself, when she had come into the room earlier. Well, that much she could give him. That much she wanted to give him . . . for as long as he would let her.
And if she took just a tiny bit of caring with her, if she captured the merest taste of what love felt like and kept it safe inside her heart, would that be so wrong?
Matt's hand closed over hers. "Quit looking so glum. There's only a one-in-four chance you'll land on my property. Go ahead and roll the dice."
He nodded toward three adjacent game squares, each one sporting four of the sewing pin markers she had designated as Monopoly "houses." He waggled his eyebrows and gave her a victor's grin. "Then again, you could be owing me an awful lot of money after you throw those dice. Maybe you'd like to take out your debt in trade. Say, a dollar per kiss?"
Haley laughed at his audacity. This was the man who had all but apologized for kissing her the first time?
"I'll take my chances," she said.
"Double or nothing?"
He winked. Heat rose in her cheeks . . . and in other, less visible places. How did he do that to her, with nothing more than a handful of words and a smile?
When she didn't answer, he scooped up a pile of hand-drawn Monopoly money and put it in the middle of the board. "I'll see your invitation, and raise you all this stuff you claim looks like money."
"It does look like money—"
"Where you come from. Real money doesn't have dead presidents on it."
She smiled. Compared with the money he had shown her—legal tender bills printed and issued by an Arizona Territory bank—she supposed her Monopoly money looked pretty unreal.
"—and what invitation?"
Matt leaned across the board and tucked her hair behind her ear with a movement so steady and gentle, it belied the size and strength of his big, masculine hands. Haley couldn't help but shiver as he let one of those hands trace her lips, then lightly touch the tip of her nose.
"The invitation in your eyes. The invitation in your skin, in your scent, in the way you lean toward me ... waiting to be touched."
Wow. For a self-proclaimed man of few words, Matt sure knew how to pick the ones he did use.
"Smooth," she said, doing her best to concentrate on the game instead of the heat in his eyes. Everything was happening so hard, so fast, it felt impossible to trust and was all the more tempting because of it. "Very smooth. Did the other nannies fall for this as easily as I did?"
"No. They all went bankrupt."
"I meant the—"
"I know what you meant."
Her head came up. She gazed across her makeshift Monopoly board at him, and the leashed anger in his face made her want to flinch beneath it.
Instead, she rolled the dice. She hadn't spent most of her thirty years hiding her feelings only to give them away now. Coolly, she picked up her porcelain dog game piece and looked toward the board to see what she had rolled.
From the carved ivory faces of the dice, five black dots stared up at her.
Rats.
Haley moved her piece onto the center square belonging to Matt, then thumbed through her cash for the rent payment she owed. "Good. You know what I meant"—she held the money toward him—"and I know what you want. I guess that makes us even, doesn't it?"
"No." His voice was deadly soft, resonant with the certainty of the man behind it
He didn't take the money. She waved it toward him with trembling fingers, her vision filled with the wide expanse of his blue flannel shirt She didn't dare look at his face and see the truth he refused to admit.
"Exactly what do you think I want?"
"Look, it's nothing to be ashamed of," she said, resolutely straightening her spine. Thank God his shirt gave her something else to focus on, or she might never have been able to speak at all. His buttons were tortoiseshell, burnished and rich. Someone had sewn them on with navy blue thread. "You told me yourself the nannies sometimes had ideas about, uhh ..."
You wouldn't be the first female they've sent who wanted a place in my bed to sweeten the work.
She cleared her throat and moved on to the stitching on his collar, then followed a seam across the hard-muscled span of his shoulders. "That is, I knew what I was getting into. And I'm still here."
Are you here for the job . . . or for me?
"You're wrong." His hand crushed atop the money in her fist "And you're ruining your game."
Helplessly, she watched him draw the money from her hand. Without feeling it, she had wadded the bills into a mashed-up ball even smaller than the ones on the billiard table. So much for playing it cool.
He dropped her cash ball atop the money pile he had made in the center of the game board, then looked at her. The force of his attention, focused solely on her, made Haley feel hot and cold at once. What did he see?
After several agonizing seconds, he spoke again: "Haley Madison, you are pure hell on a man's feeling of victory."
She could have screamed with relief at the lightness of his tone. Drawing in a deep breath, she did her best to match it. "Why, Mr. Chance. Are you calling me a poor loser?"
"I'm calling you a liar."
"Hey!"
"And I wasn't talking about winning the game."
His hand touched her waist, drew her closer. She should have refused to come near. Her sense of pride should have demanded it. But her need for his warmth overrode all else.
"What were you talking about, then?" she asked.
His gaze searched her face, and the reverent expression he wore was enough to steal Haley's breath away. Matt looked like a man staring into the stars ... a man who, until now, had seen nothing but the earth beneath his feet.
"I was talking about wanting a woman who runs every chance she gets. You didn't know what you were getting into, Haley. You would have run the first night if you had."
She thought back on that night, remembered the way he had carried her tote bag for her. Remembered, too, the way she had followed him, trying to stay within reach of everything she had left in the world.
She knew he was right.
She knew she should have run then, before making promises she couldn't keep.
Because staying much longer would only hurt them all.
Matt's rough-sounding voice called her back. As though he had read her thoughts, he said, "I'm not asking for forever."
Misery squeezed her chest. She hoped this pain was only hers, because the thought of causing him the kind of mingled joy and despair she felt was unbearable.
She spread her palms across his chest. Beneath his shirt's soft midnight flannel, his heart beat strong and fierce. "That's good," she whispered with a sad smile, "because I can't give you forever."
"Awww, Haley ..."
Before she knew what he meant to do, Matt suddenly put both his massive hands to her waist and lifted her all the way off the floor. She clutched his shoulders, feeling his work-tempered muscles bunch with effort as he swept her sideways and settled her atop the low table. Play money flew into the air. Pieces of the Monopoly game clattered to the floor. But when Matt settled himself on his knees at her feet and looked up at her, nothing else mattered.
"Women don't stay. I've known that for a long time."
"No! You don't under—"
"Shhh." His thumb gently pressed her lips closed; then he sealed her silence with a kiss. "I understand all I need to. Give me tonight. Give me now."
He tunneled his hands into her hair, loosening the knot at her nape. She felt her hair uncoil. The silky weight of it on her shoulder told her as much about his intentions as did his caressing fingers on her skin. Matt meant to make love to her tonight ... no matter what tomorrow might hold for them. It was all she could do not to tumble into his arms right then.
His beard brushed her cheek; then his breath whispered into her ear. "Give me you."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Oh, but Haley wanted to give herself to him. And Matt's kiss was an added enticement she had no wish to resist. His mouth met hers and swept her to a place where promises and futures didn't exist. Not hers, not his . . . not the more than one hundred years that divided them both. When it ended, Haley was breathless.
She was lost.
"You had me," she said shakily, "from the moment I saw you."
He drew back. Surprise—and enough masculine pride to make her smile—filled his features. "That quick?" He tilted his head toward the foyer. "That close?"
"Yes, that quick. But not there." She wound her arms around his neck, hugging him close. "In a book. I think I fell a little in love with you the first time I saw your picture in my research books."
He frowned, just like he always did when she mentioned her own time. But then he gave her a long, steady look . . . and winked once more. "I was wrong about you."
"What do you mean?"
Matt's smile turned bright enough to warm her from head to toe. Then, even through her layers of skirt and petticoat, his hands unerringly found her knees and closed around them. Haley gasped at the shock of his hands, warm enough to send heat searing all the way through the fabric to her skin beneath.
With a devil's grin, Matt spread her thighs and made room for himself between them. His body pressed against her from chest to belly, and ordinary calico wasn't nearly enough to protect her from the intimacy of their position.
"I mean my feeling of victory is doing just fine around you," he teased. "A man could get downright accustomed to having you with him."
She hoped he would.
She knew he wouldn't.
"Oh, yeah?" She gave him a smile of her own and maneuvered herself into position, ready to make her next move. "Well, before you get used to having me around, there's something you need to know."
"Mmmm. What's that?"
His words were a purr of contentment, the sound of a man who meant to be satisfied ... and soon. She almost hated to postpone that satisfaction.
Almost.
But she couldn't give herself to a man whose wholehearted laughter she had never heard, a man who held himself so tightly leashed that nothing except desire could get through. Haley wanted more. She wanted it all. And she wanted to be the one to give it to him.
That, at least, could be a lasting gift.
"Aside from being a killer Monopoly player," she said, raising her hands to his shoulders, "I also happen to be ... a world-class tickler!"
She launched herself at him, laughing. He grunted and toppled backward onto the rug, obviously taken by surprise. She caught a glimpse of his wide eyes, his startled expression, and then there wasn't time for anything except finding ticklish spots. Haley tried one after another, grinning with delight.  Learning to survive in strange households, sometimes with many foster kids at a time, had conferred its share of advantages on her.
This happened to be one of the more dastardly ones.
Squirming atop him, skirts flying, she used all her strength to hoist one of his arms overhead and went back to work.
"Ahhh! That tickles!" he yelled, wriggling beneath her.
Gritting his teeth against the laughter, Matt bucked high enough to almost unseat her. Haley grabbed a handful of his shirt and held on. She tickled his throat, lunged lower to smack noisy kisses along the underside of his bearded jaw, mercilessly found new ticklish places and took full advantage of every one.
And the whole time, nothing more than clench-toothed smiles, grunts, and groans escaped him.
The damned man was holding out on her!
With her thighs pressed against his hips, her position was secure enough for now. Feeling mighty, she leaned up and let herself enjoy the sensation of having him momentarily at her mercy.
Then, with a pretend frown, she leaned over to inspect his expression. "Why, Matt—I do believe your face is turning blue. Maybe you ought to try breathing."
She poked him in the belly. On a whoosh of exhaled breath, his laughter filled the room, husky and joyous. The sound of it lightened her heart more than she had ever imagined. How long had it been since he had laughed, really laughed, like this?
"You're relentless, woman!"
He ground out the words between howls of laughter, grabbing her hand in an attempt to stop her. Deviously, she wriggled her toes and tickled his calves, instead. He yelped and bucked higher, and his laughter just went on.
As an undocumented historical fact, Matt Chance was, quite possibly, the most ticklish person she had ever encountered.
He slipped both her wrists into one of his hands. Sensing what was coming, Haley clamped her arms against her sides as hard as she could. "Oh, no. Oh, no, you don't!"
"Oh, yes. I do."
With an evil laugh, he flipped her onto her back. The thick woven rug cushioned her, but the movement was enough to dislodge her protective measures. In no time at all, his tickling fingers wriggled under her arms. Her laughter joined his, and before long, they were nothing but a laughing, rolling mess of flailing limbs, tumbled clothing, and wildly mussed hair.
It was wonderful.
Matt gave as good as he got. Soon, Haley found herself on her back, wedged between the sofa at her shoulders and his knees at her thighs. Breathless, she swiped the tears from her eyes and mounted a new attack.
On his belly.
Maybe nobody had invented the raspberry yet. Or nobody played with babies in the nineteenth century. But she knew she would remember forever the look on Matt's face when she tugged his shirt out of his pants, lowered her lips to his lean, warm belly ... and blew.
His laughter was uncontrollable. His shaky hands clutched at her head, and between gasps, he hoarsely begged her to stop.
When that didn't work, he squirmed sideways just far enough to catch hold of her foot. He cupped the arch of her foot in his hand ... and tickled like a man born to live on her laughter.
"Papa!"
The sound of Rebecca's shocked, girlish voice sent Haley bolt upright. Her fingers went slack, and Matt's shirt flopped back down over his lean, incredibly ticklish, stomach. He released her foot, letting it fall into his lap.
They both looked over at the messy-haired girl standing in the doorway. She still had her hands filled with her nightgown, as though she had raised it to run downstairs, and her glasses were shoved crookedly on her nose.
She ran to Matt. "What was that sound?"
He pulled her beside him, coaxing her onto the rug where he could put his arm around her shoulders. He sniffed, wiped a stray laughter tear from his eye, and then squeezed her close. "What sound, Becca? Did you have a nightmare?"
She shook her head. "You must have heard it. It was plumb loud enough for a dynamite blast."
Over his daughter's head, Matt's quizzical expression met Haley's. She shrugged.
"Maybe that's what it was," she said, reaching over to stroke Rebecca's head. "Lots of things sound scarier at night."
"It was coming from in here."
The child's suspicious gaze implicated them both. And suddenly, Haley realized the truth.
"It was the sound of your father laughing," she said.
Rebecca narrowed her eyes. "Uh-uh. I've never heard this sound before in my whole, entire life."
Sadness tugged at the corners of Matt's mouth. For a moment, it was as though the laughter they had shared had never existed.
"What does it sound like when I laugh?" he asked her.
"Weellll..." She scrunched her nose and hunched her shoulders. She darted a quick look at her father, then at Haley. Her head bent, and her voice was small when she spoke. "I dunno."
Because she could never remember hearing it. The truth was enough to make Haley's whole world stand still. There had to be something she could do to help Matt, to help Rebecca, to help them all. Despite the nannies who left and the—
Wait a minute. That was the answer.
Matt didn't need a better nanny. He needed to quit needing a nanny. And what better way to do that than to make sure he could take care of Rebecca and Jacob himself?
Haley had always known she couldn't stay in the past with them forever. Now she knew what needed doing before she left. She had to make Matt come home—and stay home—long enough to be the father he had never learned, never dared, to become.
And as soon as he and the children were all right on their own....
She would leave.
But not until then.
Relief at having the decision made pushed a smile on her face, despite knowing what her future held. The time to take action was now. And what better way than with laughter?
Straightening her clothes and her hair, Haley watched Rebecca and Matt talking quietly. Their closeness, tentative as it was, only seemed to reinforce the decision she had made. It was the right thing to do.
Scooting backward, she grabbed a needlepoint pillow from a corner of the sofa. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Jacob trundling sleepily into the room, too. Good, she thought as he flung himself, yawning, into Matt's arms and snuggled against his chest. The more, the merrier.
She tossed the pillow from hand to hand. "Since we're all awake anyway," she said, capturing everyone's attention, "who's up for a pillow fight?"
"Me!" Rebecca jumped to her feet and raced for the sofa.
"Me, too!" Jacob was hot on her heels.
Seconds later, they were armed and ready—embroidered pillow for Becca, plaid pillow for Jacob. They both had the same target. Wearing grins the size of the territory, they advanced slowly toward it.
Toward him.
Matt gazed innocently up at the children moving ever closer to his spot on the floor. He made a face. "Pillow fight? Whoever heard of a—"
Three pillows whacked into his face and cut short his question.
"We did!" they shouted in unison, laughing.
Matt looked at the pillows, then at them.
"Haley teached us," Jacob piped in.
"I figured." With mock ferocity, his father grabbed all three pillows in his arms and got to his feet. "Just one more thing to thank Miss Haley for."
His teasing smile was for her alone. She wasn't so sure about those pillows. Eyeing them cautiously, Haley got to her feet, too, and gave him a curtsey. Thank God for old TV movies, or she would never have known how.
"My pleasure," she said, backing up.
"There's only one problem," Matt went on, juggling the pillows. "It seems you three have given me all the ammunition!"
He gave a playful roar and ran toward Rebecca. She squealed and grabbed a second pillow, only to get a pillow in the face from her brother.
Jacob giggled.
Matt and Rebecca chased each other around the table, past the ruined Monopoly game and beyond the foyer doorway, then back again. Pillows flew every which way . .. and so did laughter. Before long, the whole lower floor of Chance mansion rang with it, and Haley was glad.
Even breathless, covered with pillow down, and with an aching stomach from laughing so hard, she had never been happier in her life.
CHAPTER TWELVE
By the time another week had passed, it was plain as daylight to Matt that Haley didn't know what was good for her. Despite her continued insistence that she couldn't stay with them much longer, everything she did only drew her closer.
Since their board game—and the pillow fight that had followed, he remembered with a smile—it was as though any reservations she had possessed had vanished. Matt's resistance had disappeared right along with them, and soon, she had pulled him all the way into the springtime she had created.
He had even agreed to let Haley host an Equinox Ball on the first day of spring, less than two weeks away. For the first time in the years since Eugenie's death, laughter, lights, music and dancing would spill from his house on the hill above town. Everyone in Landslide would see that the past had been laid to rest. They would see that the future of the Chance family was Haley.
In every way, she made him feel alive again. Her conversations beside the hearth warmed him more than any fire ever could. Her loving caresses heated his blood, and made him want to cast aside the damned honor that kept him from making her his own. And at the end of the day, Haley's laughter eased him into the night.
He wasn't the only one affected. Beneath her care, Jacob and Rebecca blossomed, with pink cheeks and bright eyes and stories of experiences they could barely keep inside.
Haley ordered child-sized clothes from the Montgomery Ward wish book that Mabel kept at her general store, and took it upon herself to oversee their daily walks up and down the hillside to the schoolhouse. She told them fanciful tales of the future, about flying machines and pictures that moved and Jeeps that could travel hundreds of miles in a matter of hours.
In the mornings, Haley woke them with a smile and an opening of the curtains that let sunshine stream inside. At night, she tucked them in. And between times, she taught Becca how to braid her hair in some fancy French style, and helped Jacob sort and display his hundred-piece rock, twig, and leaf collection in the house's main hall.
This last had earned her a snippy, needle-tongued rebuke from the housekeeper and the cook, Miss Jolie, who believed "that junk" belonged outside, and certainly not in view of important visitors to the Chance house.
Somehow, Haley had changed the woman's mind. They had emerged one day from the kitchen together, covered with flour and tomato sauce, and Jolie had announced that from here on out, she would be serving Haley's mysterious "pizza" once every week—and Jacob's collections could stay where they were.
Haley had woven herself even deeper into the fabric of his family's lives, and they were all better off because of it.
Except Haley.
She would have disagreed, Matt knew. She gave to them with no question of what she would receive in return.
And in return, she received exactly that. No questions, no promises . . . and no future. A woman like her deserved better than a nanny's position and the place in his bed he yearned to give her. Haley deserved a family of her own. She deserved a man who would stand by her, a lasting place in his heart and the protection of his name.
She deserved a husband.
Hell. From his straight-backed office chair, Matt gazed across the mine maps, instruments, and ore samples that filled his work days and consumed far too much of his muscle and mind. How could he give her something she had never spoken of wanting? How could he risk asking her to stay, when he had known from the start she would be leaving him?
"Uh, boss?" One of his foremen stuck his head through the opened doorway and motioned toward Matt. "You'd better come see this."
Matt stood as the foreman stepped aside, then walked from his office onto the rocky soil outside. The creosote-scented breezes of early March stirred his hair. Harsh light from the setting sun squeezed his eyes partway shut. The sight that worked its way through his squinted gaze changed the question in his mind altogether.
Could that really be Haley he saw, marching full chisel down the twisty trail leading from the house to the mine?
Despite the basket and bundle she carried, she walked like a queen through the lengthening shadows cast by the Little Lola's tall timber head frames. Like a lady on an evening stroll, she raised the skirt of her bright yellow dress and edged past the boulders and clumps of cactus lining the path. Another few minutes, and she would be on his office doorstep.
In the last rays of the sun, her dark hair gleamed. It bounced curly and loose on her shoulders, inciting the kind of lewd suggestions from his men that Matt didn't particularly want his children to hear.
Because they were there, too. Becca and Jacob trailed in her wake, his daughter sporting a new plumed hat— doubtless remade for the occasion by Haley—and his son brandishing a rag-bedecked branch. As they got closer, he realized they were singing something. Loudly. The words wafted to him on the warmth of the wind.
"Hi, ho! Hi, ho! It's off to work we go!"
Catcalls and whisdes were buried beneath their energetic singing. Haley had begun singing on purpose, Matt realized, just to keep the children from hearing the ruckus she had inspired. Her inventiveness never failed to surprise him. Neither did the strength of his feelings for her. After Eugenie, he had thought he would never love again. Since Haley, he knew miracles could happen to anyone.
Her makeshift parade rounded the last turn leading to his office, and more than two dozen of his men doffed their hats and bowed as the threesome passed.
She had conquered them, too. A bunch of burly, foul-mouthed miners, tamed with only a single smile from the woman marching cheerfully between their ranks. Her singing reached a crescendo just as her parade reached the heart of the crowd, and on the final note, a blushing Haley and the children bowed to their audience.
The men applauded. They hooted. They stamped their feet and yelled for more. Groaning, Matt slapped his hand over his eyes.
A few moments later, Haley's gloved fingers pried his hand free.
Her smiling face came into view. "Surprise!" she said brightly. She returned both hands to her basket's wicker handle and beamed up at him. "We missed you."
They had missed him. She had missed him. And she had changed the course of her entire day just because of it. Matt couldn't help the stupid, sappy grin that spread across his face.
He definitely had to find a way to make this woman stay with him.
"You did?" He put his arms around Rebecca and Jacob, pulling them into the shade of the adobe-walled assay office beside him. "Enough to brave that shoe-eating path down here?"
"Yup!" Jacob planted his rag-bedecked stick into the dirt like a pioneer erecting a flag on newly discovered territory, and smiled up at him. "Just like you do, Papa. Becca wanted to take the road, but I said we ought to go your way, 'cause that would s'prise you the most."
Haley leaned close enough to send the scent of her lemony perfume wafting toward him. She winked. "He won the coin toss."
"Good thinking," Matt told her. He ruffled Jacob's hair and added, "I'm surprised as can be, son. I've never seen anything like the sight of you three marching and singing your way down the hillside. I guess my men haven't, either."
"Maybe," Haley said, "but now that they have, they seem downright welcoming to me."
Matt looked at the crowd of dirt-streaked, grinning miners surrounding them. He felt pretty sure their befuddled, delighted expressions mirrored his own.
"You'd think none of them had work waiting to be done," he said loudly.
Thirty-odd miners scattered, muttering about break time being over.
Haley laughed. "I can see why you've been so successful. You've got them all believing you're nothing but work, work, work."
"I am."
"Not anymore." With a purposeful air, she grabbed the arm of a passing mine worker and shoved the basket and bundle she had brought into his hands. "Would you see that this gets to Mr. Chance's office, please? Thanks."
Matt watched in amazement as the man agreeably tucked the bundle beneath his elbow, then carried it and the fabric-draped basket inside. He recognized him as Johnson, a miner he had employed almost since founding Landslide.
For a man who prided himself on championship tobacco spitting and wearing his shoes until they crumbled clean off his feet, Johnson managed the dainty basket with surprising care.
"We brought you dinner!" Rebecca announced into the silence that followed. She raised up on tiptoes, and the wind-tossed plume on her hat went straight for his nose. "Fried chicken, biscuits, beans, and lemonade, straight from Jolie's kitchen."
"I helped," said Jacob.
Matt sneezed and tilted Becca's plume the other way.
"Helped eat the lemons, you mean," she told her brother. Laughing, she gazed up at Matt. "He looked more puckered than old Reverend Thomas."
Haley laughed. "Well, we can't let all that effort go to waste, now can we? Let's eat!"
Something about the way she said it made Matt wonder about all the effort she had gone to, too. Had it been purely for the sake of visiting him with the children? Or was there more to it than that?
There was only one way to find out. He took Haley's arm in his, escorted her into his office along with Jacob and Rebecca, and set about doing just that.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
By the time Haley had finished the last of her preparations for the Equinox Ball, she was dead on her feet. She had shopped; she had helped clean; she had penned invitations and selected decorations. She had even planned a menu. Living up to the reputation for elaborate nineteenth century entertaining Matt and Eugenie had established wouldn't be easy—but she felt as though she might at least come close.
Cradling a saucer and cup filled with hot Arbuckle's coffee, plenty of sugar, and real cream, Haley left the kitchen and padded down the hallway in her stockinged feet. There was just enough time for a nice break before it was time to put on her high-laced shoes and make the long walk to the schoolhouse to meet Jacob and Rebecca, and she intended to make the most of it.
As she passed the foyer, a glimpse of the house's opened front door stopped her. She couldn't remember having left it that way. Deliveries of coal, milk, and ice usually came through the kitchen, so it wasn't likely that a delivery person had simply forgotten to close it. And with Matt still at his office near the mine, no one else should have passed through this way.
Moving forward to close the door, Haley heard a masculine shout, then the sound of shuffling feet. Moments later, a miner appeared in the doorway. He had his back to her and was holding the edge of something in his hands— something big, judging by his slightly bent knees and grunts of exertion as he backed inside the house.
She edged sideways to let him pass.
"Afternoon, ma'am," he said, nodding toward her. He and his partner, another miner by the look of him, paused with the table they were carrying held between them. "Hope we didn't startle you none."
"Oh, no, that's fine." At least in the nineteenth century, she hadn't any worries about crime. It happened, of course, but if her experiences so far were anything to go by, folks were more likely to give than to steal. "Did Mr. Chance send you?"
"I did." Matt's voice came from outside. "Move it, boys. We've got too much hauling to do to be spending time jawing with the ladies." He backed through the doorway, dressed in work clothes and a flat-brimmed hat, then grinned at her over the piece of furniture he was carrying in. "No matter how pretty they are."
"Okay, boss." The first two men adjusted their grasp on the table and carried it toward the billiard room.
"Nothing but work, work, work, huh?" Haley couldn't help but smile back at Matt. Even sweaty, unshaven, and filled with the machismo that came with hauling around something twice his size, he was still the man of her dreams. "Are these more supplies for the party?"
"Couldn't say." His expression said he wouldn't say. And his enigmatic smile only made her more curious. "Follow me, and maybe you'll see for yourself."
"Okay. Because it's all planned, you know." She sipped her coffee, watching as he and another man followed the first two into the billiard room. She trailed them to the rear of the house, still talking. "The party, that is. Everything will be ready to be picked up on the day of the Equinox Ball, and I just gave Jolie the final menu a few minutes ago."
"Good." He disappeared into the library adjoining the billiard room, and his voice carried from within the small, bookshelf-lined space. "I knew you'd do a good job."
"I'm glad somebody did.'' She smiled when he emerged. "I wasn't quite so sure of myself."
He leaned over and kissed her. "I'm sure enough for both of us."
Haley hoped that was true. No matter how far she had traveled into the past, it hadn't been enough to put distance between herself and all her old doubts. They had followed her here, sure as night followed day.
Before, she had poured all her energy into her genealogy business, researching, studying, and writing about other families. Now, for the first time, she felt almost as though she were really a part of one. It felt so real and so right, and yet... it couldn't be. Only a fool would ignore what long-standing experience had taught her.
What did you expect, Madison? Fairy-tale endings had never been her style. Wishes didn't come true just because you wanted them to, and love didn't go both ways just because you had so much of it to share.
Sighing, she propped her hip on the billiard table and watched the men carry in books, wooden crates of papers, and a seemingly endless supply of rolled maps and ore lumps. Those weren't party supplies. So what was going on?
When Matt paused long enough to talk, Haley plunked her empty coffee cup and saucer onto the sleek baize behind her and grabbed his elbow. "Hey, what's all this?"
"You ought to know. You're the one who inspired it."
"Huh?"
His mysterious grin returned. He touched the tip of her nose, then headed outside. "The day you visited the mine office, remember? Back in a minute. I've got to send the men back down the hill with the wagon."
She watched him leave, walking in that powerful, determined way he had, and didn't know what to think. He had tossed out that statement—the day you visited the mine office, remember?—easily as he left the room, with every expectation she would be pleased. In fact, Matt seemed downright lighthearted, more carefree than she had seen him since the ticklefest they had shared. But all Haley felt was confused.
The day she visited the mine with Jacob and Rebecca, they had talked about so much. His business, the kids' school, the Equinox Ball. The clothes she had ordered for the family, the things she had learned as a nanny, what life was like in her own time. There was too much to narrow down, too much to guess what Matt had taken from the conversation and remembered well enough to act upon ... too much for that conversation to have been anything but information gathering on Matt's part.
He had been grilling her for information!
But for what purpose?
He passed by, carrying an old-fashioned globe, a blanket thrown over his arm—and a wildflower.
"Guessed yet?" he asked, presenting it to her.
"No. Darn it." She grinned and raised the slender purple blossom to her nose. "But thank you for this. It's beautiful. I've never gotten more flowers in my life than I have since I came here."
"You're welcome." Smiling, he carried the globe and blanket into the library, then leaned out to say, "You can have flowers every day. All you have to do is stay."
Automatically, Haley's hand went to the pocket of her long, pale, calico skirt. The smooth, curved weight of Eugenie Chance's magical perfume bottle met her fingers and warmed to her touch. She had taken to carrying it with her, hoping to ready herself for her inevitable leave-taking. Hoping to bolster her courage for the single lavender-scented spritz that would return her to her own time.
So far, it hadn't worked.
She wanted to stay.
Just until they're all right on their own, she reminded herself. Just until Matt doesn't need me anymore.
Knowing you were doing the right thing, she discovered, didn't help much when your heart was breaking.
"Flowers every day, huh? You must need a nanny pretty bad," she said, striving for humor.
"Not anymore."
Because he had her for a nanny, Haley supposed.
He leaned closer and held out his hand. "Maybe I just need you that bad."
"And maybe you're just trying to sidestep me." Mustering an answering smile for his sake, she took his hand and let him pull her into the library. "So I won't find out what your big secret is."
"It's the best-known secret in Landslide."
He picked up a leather-bound book and thumbed through it. The apparent casualness of the gesture couldn't hide his feelings, though—he looked as happy as a kid on Christmas morning.
"I told all five hundred and fifty of my men about it at lunchtime today."
"Really?" Idly, she ran her fingers along the adobe fireplace mantel, looking around at the room's new furnishings. "And what did they say?"
Her gaze fell on the familiar sturdy oak desk in the center of the room, then moved to the maps and books and straight-backed office chair arranged haphazardly beside it. The truth was unmistakable.
Matt was moving his office into his home.
Matt was doing as she had asked, making sure he was there for Rebecca and Jacob when they needed him. That was what he had taken from their conversation at the mine.
Oh, God. Not already.
"They said—" He stopped, looked at her, and whatever he saw in her face made him cut short his reply. He dropped his book onto the desk. "What's the matter? You look plain done in, all of a sudden. Is Jolie pecking at you again? Is the party too much? It's not worth wearing yourself out for a—"
"No. No, I'm fine." She waved away his concerned step toward her, and grabbed the duck-edged doorjamb for support instead. "I just felt a little, um, dizzy for a second there. It's gone now."
Liar. But what else was new? She had lied to herself almost from the moment she had picked up that perfume bottle and wished for Matt to love her. Surely she could finish what she had started. But then she looked again at the furniture and supplies surrounding her, and Haley's heart sank. Matt might be ready—obviously was ready— to move on, but she didn't want to finish this.
Not yet.
She licked her lips. "I guess, urn, your foreman is happy. He must have at least gotten a raise out of the deal."
The choked sound that came from her lips was nothing like the laugh she intended. Miserably, she stared toward the bank of French doors lining the billiard room just beyond them. The blue skies and spring sunshine visible through the glass might have belonged to another world. Happiness like that didn't feel like a part of hers. Not now.
Matt frowned. "I thought you'd be happy. You saidJacob and Rebecca wanted me home more. You said they needed me, needed their father more than they needed a nanny. You said you'd all be happier if I were here."
"I said—"
"Those were your words. Are you going to take them back now?"
"I meant the kids would be happier." He shook his head, but she kept on, moving closer to him in her need to make him understand. "I meant you would be happier, Matt."
"What about you?"
"What about me?"
"Awww, Haley . .."
The hope, the confusion, the caring in his expression was enough to break her heart all over again. He touched her face, stroked her cheek with such tenderness that she had to fight the urge to close her eyes. She wanted to beg him not to look closer—and at the same time, to see inside her ... and want her anyway.
"Doesn't this make you happy?" he asked.
"Of course," she croaked. She felt her eyes mist, and turned away before he could see. "Of course it does. I— I—I just didn't expect it to happen so ... so fast. People don't usually do what I say, just like that, you know."
"Why not?"
He sounded so reasonable, so honestly perplexed, that she actually smiled, even through her tears. "I—I guess they have ideas of their own."
"So do I. That doesn't stop me from recognizing somebody else's good idea when I hear it."
Matt pulled her closer, turned her in his arms. When his gaze met hers, his fingers clenched on her shoulder, and in a single, convulsive movement he cradled her head against his chest. Through her tears, she heard his voice whisper into her hair.
"God, Haley. Don't cry."
She sniffed, twisting her fingers into his thick shirt. Distantly, a part of her noticed he had quit wearing flannel all the time. But then, for all intents and purposes, spring had already come to Landslide, no matter what the calendar said.
"I'm not crying."
He captured her face in his hands, tilted it upward. His thumbs wiped away the wetness from her cheeks. His image wavered in her tear-drenched vision, but his determination was plain to see. Matt's forehead touched her own.
"You are, but I don't know why." He closed his eyes briefly, then refocused on her. "Don't you see? I want to be here now. Again. For the first time in ... so long, home is a place I want to be."
The truth in his voice rasped across her heart. She had made him happy, at least for a while. She wanted that to be enough.
She wanted him so much that it wasn't.
Hell of a martyr she had turned out to be. Apparently, selflessness just wasn't her strong suit. Not if it meant leaving gladly in the end.
"Matt—"
"Haley, it's all thanks to you. You made me see what I had to do, and I'm doing it. I'm a father again, and more. I'm here for good. Is that so wrong?"
Only because she'd done her job too well. She had set out to heal Matt and his children as best she could. Now that she had, Haley knew she wasn't needed anymore.
"No," she whispered. "It's not wrong. It's right. It's so right for you, and for Jacob and Rebecca." Her voice broke. She drew a shuddering breath, but no amount of bracing herself would be enough to keep the hurt at bay, and Haley knew it.
Once again, she had overstayed her time with a family that wasn't really her own. Once again, she didn't belong. And the pain of knowing that was something she could never outrun.
Dashing away the tears, she looked up at him. "You know what? The timing couldn't be better, as it turns out."
"No."
Her eyes widened. "What do you mean, no? I haven't even told you why yet."
"You don't have to."
His hands tightened on her shoulders, and she knew he had realized the truth. He released her, then looked down at his arms. For a moment, Matt seemed surprised to find them empty.
"I've seen that expression before," he said.
I'm used to being left. He didn't have to say it again. Matt's eyes held the knowledge of hard-won experience. Women don't stay. I've known that for a long time.
She straightened, suddenly feeling defensive beyond all reason. He had turned to face the window. All she could see was the back of his head, the rigid set of his shoulders, but that was enough. He wouldn't fight her. He had already accepted her decision.
"You knew I had to leave," she said, struggling to speak clearly around her aching throat. "I told you from the start."
"You did."
"I told you again and again." So why did it feel as though leaving now was some kind of betrayal?
He turned. "I know."
Nervously, miserably, Haley stuck her hand in her pocket and fiddled with the perfume bottle inside. Anything was better than meeting his eyes. Anything was better than seeing the impassive acceptance she had imagined on Matt's face so many times when this moment came.
"If you want, I'll wait until the Equinox Ball is over with. I wouldn't want you to be in-inconvenienced, or—"
"By all means, don't inconvenience me."
The barely restrained violence in his voice made her flinch. Jerking her chin upward, Haley backed up a few steps.
His gaze went to her feet, moved upward to where her hand fisted in her skirt. Without realizing it, she had raised her hem a few inches—the few, necessary inches that would allow her to run.
“The last thing I needed,'' Matt said slowly, “was another woman who'd leave. What I got was a woman who can't wait to run. Don't let me stop you, sunshine. From where I'm standing, you're already gone."
The last sound she heard was the front door slamming behind him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Damn it, he should have known better. On the evening of the Equinox Ball, Matt sat in his new library and office, listening to the sounds of horses and carriages driving up the curved road outside the house. With one hand wrapped around a bottle of whiskey and the other caressing the useless velvet box in his lap, he gazed out the window at the sun sinking into the Verde Valley. Despite the party beginning all around him, he knew he had never been in a less celebratory state of mind.
He should have known better.
It shouldn't have mattered how easily Haley had made him believe she might be the one woman who would stay.
It did.
Hell. Haley. Eugenie. Close to a half dozen nannies. How many times did a man have to be smacked in the head with the truth before some of it started to sink in? Now even Jolie and Olivia were threatening to walk out if he let Haley leave. It was beyond him what they expected him to do about it. Her decision was as good as carved in the mountainside.
Shivering, Matt raised his whiskey and drank. The stuff should have warmed him—that, or the heavy wool suit jacket he had on for the party—but it didn't. Nothing did, these days. It was as though he had only imagined all that heat before, and reality was the ice around his heart.
He turned his gaze toward the blaze he had set in the fireplace, then toward the window again. He ought to work up the gumption to play host. The townspeople depended on it, and he was the only one who had access to the one hundred and fifty ribbon-wrapped bags of candy they customarily gave to the children of Landslide each year. For the moment, he decided, that would have to wait
Carefully, Matt set the small velvet box he had been holding atop his desk. He went to the window, shoving his hands in his pants pockets while he stared outside. In the distance, shafts of orange and yellow painted his hillside with brilliance, spending their last warmth in an effort to look beautiful. Just like Haley.
The party—the same party he had stupidly hoped would become a springtime tradition again—appeared to be a great success. Music and happy voices drifted from the French doors opening onto the terrace and wound their way into his window. Enough people had come to fill his home to overflowing, to clean his pantry bare and drink his liquor cabinet bone-dry.
Good idea. Frowning, Matt raised the whiskey again.
The scuffle of feet in the doorway lowered his hand. He peered toward the sound, pausing to wipe the back of his hand across his mouth. Liquor sloshed inside the bottle at the movement.
Drinking alone was a lonely man's lover.
He set the bottle aside.
Rebecca appeared in the doorway. Breathless, with her hair ribbons askew and her spectacles sliding down her nose, she looked as though she had run clean down the hillside and back up again.
A shiver ran down Matt's spine. Maybe she had... trying to catch up with Haley before she left.
"Papa! Miss Haley's packing!"
Her mournful wail was enough to wrench his heart. Couldn't Haley have waited until after the party, like she had said? It was going to be hard enough on Becca and Jacob as it was.
He reached for her small hand and squeezed. "She's got to leave, Becca. You know that. Be a big girl and—"
"Noooo!"
Her shriek should have suggested a full-blown, kicking-and-screaming tantrum. But the sudden tears in her eyes told him this went beyond playacting and a child's need to have her own way. For Rebecca, this went all the way to desperate needing—something Matt understood more than he wanted to.
"I'll still be here." Frowning, he stroked her hair, wishing to God he knew what to do. Until Haley, he had been too damned scared, too mad and too hurting, to even think of caring for Rebecca and Jacob himself. Now that he had begun, he wished he could recapture all the experience he had denied himself.
He had to do something. "Don't worry," he murmured, stroking her carefully braided hair again. Hell, he felt like the biggest liar in town. "It'll be okay, Becca. You'll see. Before long—"
She straightened and sniffed, and her expression turned inexplicably buoyant. "You've got a plan!"
"No ... no! I meant that—"
Before he could say more, Jacob burst into the room, swinging past the doorjamb and stopping beside his sister. "Papa! Miss Haley's packing!"
"It's okay, Jacob." Rebecca turned her trusting gaze from him, to her brother, and back again. "Papa's going to fix it."
There was no misery, Matt learned in that moment, like wanting to make it right for your children and not being able to.
"Yay!" Jacob yelled. Helpfully, he leaned toward Matt. "She's upstairs in her room, putting on those funny clothes of hers. Maybe you could take her satchel and make her stay. I wouldn't leave without my stuff."
"Son, I—"
"Make her stay, Papa," Rebecca interrupted. "Don't let her leave."
Don't let her leave. The words hit him like the realization of a dream. It was too simple to be believed . . . and he had never once tried it. Every time, he had let himself be left. Every time, he had been too proud to stop it, too ready to believe no woman would stay for long. If he asked Haley, would she stay with him?
"Please, hurry!" his children begged in unison. "She's going to get away!"
Decision lightened his heart and put a smile on his face. Grabbing the abandoned velvet box from his desk, Matt turned to his children and nodded. "I can't make any promises. But if I asked Haley to be with us—"
"Like a forever nanny?" Jacob asked, gleefully hopping up and down.
"No, Jacob, not like that." Rebecca's eyes lit up. "Like a mama."
Matt looked down at their smiling faces and wanted to bust into the loudest, most unmanly tears he had ever shed. "I'll take that as a yes."
"Hurry!" they yelled, laughing.
Shoving the box into his suit pocket, Matt headed for the door. For Haley.
He was halfway across the billiard room when Jacob stuck his head out of the office and hollered after him.
"If you can't find her at first, be sure to look under the bed!"
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Upstairs at the end of the long hallway, Haley stopped in front of the door leading to Eugenie Chance's bedroom and set her packed tote bag on the carpeted runner. With a deep breath, she put her hand to the cool porcelain doorknob.
For the millionth time, she wondered if she ought to say goodbye to Matt and the children first.
In the past few days, while she had taken care of the last preparations for the Equinox Ball, Matt had assumed more and more of Jacob and Rebecca's care. Right down to overseeing baths and toothbrushing and bedtime stories, he had been there for them. He had learned from her guidance: they needed their father more than they needed a nanny.
More than they needed her.
It seemed almost as though he was making up for lost time. Even as she yearned to be with them, she couldn't fault his dedication and courage. Matt would be an excellent father, and they would be lucky to have him.
Had he told them about her leaving?
Probably not, Haley decided. What was one more nanny's departure, especially when Jacob and Becca had their father now?
Stop this, she told herself. Dragging out her leave-taking would only make it hurt more in the end. Better to have it finished, before she lost her courage altogether. Before Matt was forced to tell her to go, like so many others had.
She turned the doorknob. Nothing happened.
Footsteps, muffled slightly by the rug, echoed down the hallway. Someone was coming. Guiltily, she tried the door again, hoping to duck inside the bedroom before she could be seen.
The damned door wouldn't budge. Too late, she remembered the twentieth century museum curator telling his tour that Matt had kept this room locked at all times. Where could she find the key?
She sensed someone behind her. Straightening, Haley turned.
Olivia stood there, both arms filled with folded bed linens. Wrinkling her nose, she looked at Haley's khaki pants, white tank top, and matching shirt. "You're not going to the party like that, I hope. Mr. Chance put out a right fine gown for you to wear. Didn't you see it?"
She had. A beautiful ball gown of ice blue satin and matching slippers. She had no idea where he had come by such a thing. In any case, it was far too fancy for a nanny—even one who had fallen in love with her employer.
"I did, and it's gorgeous, but.. . but I needed something from this room first. Do you know where the key is?"
"Don't need a key. There's not even a keyhole, see? The door just sticks, is all."
Hugging the linens to her chest, Olivia turned the doorknob, then gave the door a solid shove with her other hand. It swung open, revealing the same wonderfully decorated bedroom Haley remembered from the house tour.
So much for historical accuracy. Maybe Matt hadn't pined away for his wife for years. Maybe he really was ready to love again, and she had mistaken his feelings as nothing more than desire and simple loneliness. Maybe it had been more than that, and. . . .
And maybe she would never get over this wishful thinking of hers. Haley's brow furrowed as she turned her thoughts to reality. Like the reality of returning to the twentieth century world she hadn't been a part of for weeks.
Olivia stepped back and smiled. "Don't be too long, now. I'm sure Mr. Chance is wanting you downstairs at the party."
If he did, he was being awfully noncommittal about it, Haley thought as she watched the housekeeper disappear into one of the other bedrooms. He hadn't spoken two words to her all day. If she had needed any proof of his indifference to her leaving, that would have been it.
"And so is everyone else," Olivia added, poking her head out from across the hall. "The whole town's turned out."
She had seen them from her window, disembarking from carriages and wagons, walking up the hillside in various versions of fancy clothes and hairstyles. Oddly enough, everyone had seemed to be carrying bouquets of wild-flowers.
Haley considered asking Olivia about it—undoubtedly some old-fashioned springtime custom she had never heard of—and then decided against it. Their customs weren't hers, and she knew better than to wish they could be.
"Miss Haley? Go on down and enjoy the fun. You did a fine job."
The unexpected praise brought a smile to her face. She would miss them all when she had gone, even the blunt housekeeper and cook.' 'Thank you, Olivia. It was my pleasure."
All of it. But the housekeeper couldn't have known she meant more than the party. With an answering smile, Olivia disappeared into the bedroom and returned to her work.
Haley sighed and picked up her tote bag, her link to the future. Thoughts of the townspeople she had come to know, of sweet times with Jacob and Becca, of smiles and kind words from Matt, chased through her mind as she stepped inside the room. Its hush closed around her, embracing her in lacy brilliance and the faint scent of lilacs. It should have calmed her, but instead the stillness amplified her feelings, leaving her twice as alone.
Twice as lonely.
Why couldn't she just forget? Why couldn't she leave them all behind, the way she had left so many others behind in her life?
So many others. The way she had left.
She had left.
The realization brought her short. Standing amidst beauty and peace, feeling torn apart with doubt, Haley tightened her grasp on her tote bag. Could it really be? All these years, she had felt abandoned. All these years, she had thought herself alone because she didn't belong.
Just as easily, she saw now, she might have been alone because she had always been the first to run.
From where I'm standing, you're already gone.
He had known. Matt had known, plain as daylight. It wasn't that she had never been loved enough. Wanted enough. The truth was that she had never accepted the love she had been given. Fear had kept her running, as surely as Eugenie's lilac perfume had given her a once in a lifetime chance to stand still.
Her heart pounded. Feeling breathless, Haley dropped her tote bag onto the pale lace coverlet. She thrust her hand inside, feeling for the cut crystal bottle.
Her fingers closed around it. She pulled it out, and light sparkled from the glass. Like magic, tiny shards of rainbow color danced on the walls around her. The bottle's surface warmed against her skin, an unspoken invitation to uncap the bottle and test the fragrance within.
Matt . . .oh, Matt. Did he love her enough to let her leave? Or did he trust her enough to stay on her own? Was that why he hadn't tried to stop her?
I'm sure enough for both of us.
Please, God. Let that be true. Because if he could be brave enough to love her, she could be brave enough to love him back.
With trembling fingers, Haley caressed the perfume bottle. It contained the power to send her back to her own time ... or to keep her with Matt forever.
She turned to the marble fireplace. She gathered her courage and closed her eyes.
"Please," she whispered. "Please let me keep this love. I know I only asked for a little, and I got so, so much more. I swear I'll try to deserve it. If only I can stay."
Haley raised the bottle. "I love you, Matt. I always will."
With a deep breath for bravery, she held it even higher. Then she opened her eyes and hurled the bottle into the fireplace. With a sound like two hearts breaking, the crystal shattered. The spell was broken.
But had time changed, too?
Aching with the need to know, to find Matt if she could, to tell him she wanted to stay with him, Haley whirled for the doorway.
And saw that Matt was already there.
"I heard you decided to stay," he said. "Welcome home."
The joy in his face was like everything she had ever wanted. The love in his eyes was all that she needed.
He opened his arms, and she hurled herself against him, too relieved to quit crying and too new to let go. Haley buried her face in the strength of his chest, savored the feel of his arms around her. It was like coming home. And this time, she had every intention of staying there.
******************
"Ready for your surprise?" Matt asked her sometime later. Smiling, nodding from her place at the end of the hallway leading downstairs, Haley smoothed the ice blue satin of the first ball gown she had ever owned. She felt like the belle of every ball, like Cinderella twice over.
She felt as though sometimes, if you were very, very lucky, fairy tales really did come true.
"Then, let's go."
Matt slipped his arm in hers, lifting his forearm to support her gloved hand. He stroked the fine satin of her new gloves, running his fingertips over the back of her hand. "You look beautiful. But you'll have to take these off later, you know."
"I will? Why?"
"To put on the ring."
He sounded so matter-of-fact, so patently certain, that it took her breath away. Before Haley could do so much as draw in enough air to speak, Matt tugged her into full view at the top of the staircase. Slowly, together, they descended.
At the party below them, the orchestra played. Murmured voices swelled, then hushed. As the sea of shifting colors and sounds and textures came into focus, Haley realized that obviously the community of Landslide, Arizona, had a whole lot of people in it. And every last one of them was inside at the Chance family party.
It was definitely a case of spring fever.
Smiling, she gazed up at Matt and then again at the crowd below. She saw familiar faces. Beloved faces. And beside each one, she saw the flowers.
Masses of wildflowers filled every hand. Blooms of every type overflowed from vases and bowls, hung from picture wires, spilled from buttonholes and ladies' hairstyles in an array of colors. They wound in sweet-smelling garlands down the banisters beside her.
She certainly hadn't arranged this. But it was all the more wonderful because of it. Haley couldn't resist reaching out toward the blossoms arrayed along the staircase. She touched a brilliant red carnation, and smiled.
Matt did, too. “You brought the springtime to Landslide. You brought springtime to me, and Becca, and Jacob, too. It only seemed fair to give some of it back."
Tears filled her eyes. "Oh, Matt—"
He stopped halfway down the stairs and squeezed her hand. "Don't cry now. They'll think you said no."
"Said no?" She sniffed. "No, what?"
"Not no, yes."
With shaky fingers, he pulled a small velvet box from his jacket. He opened it to reveal a sapphire and diamond ring that gleamed with almost as much promise as his eyes did.
"Say yes. Say yes, you'll many me, Haley."
Gently, he pulled the ring from its velvet cushion and held it poised to slip on her finger. "Say yes, you'll make me the happiest man in this time and any other. I love you."
Hundreds of ball guests held their breath. Thousands of flowers swayed in the breeze from the opened French doors, as though waiting for the celebration to fully begin. But it only took one heart to tell Haley her decision.
"Yes!" she screamed.
Laughing, she threw her arms around Matt, nearly toppling them both down the staircase, and hugged him as hard as she could. How could she refuse? She had finally found the place where she belonged.
In the arms of the man who loved her.
"Yes, yes, yes!"
Cheers erupted below them. One small, boyish voice cried, "Yippee! A forever mama!"
Jacob and Rebecca raced up the stairs. Their arms clamped around Haley and Matt, and soon all four of them were laughing. She tugged off her gloves, he slipped the ring around her finger, and they descended into the warmth of a flowery springtime—soon to be known as Landslide's fabled Equinox Ball.
And before any of them knew quite what hit them, Haley and Matt, and Jacob and Rebecca, were busily living very happily ever after.
******************
Dear Reader,
I hope you enjoyed Haley and Matt's story! Writing it was great fun for me, a wonderful opportunity to blend a thoroughly modern heroine with a straightforward hero from days gone by . . . and come up with timeless love.
I believe that true love awaits everyone brave enough to reach for it. From the publication of my first short contemporary Kensington romances Surrender and The Honeymoon Hoax, to the release of my first Zebra Splendor historical Outlaw and now Timeless Spring, there's nothing I enjoy more than writing about it. I feel lucky to have the greatest job on earth: creating stories I hope will touch your heart, spark your imagination, and tickle your funny bone, too.
I'd love to hear from you! Please write to me at P.O. Box 7105, Chandler, AZ 85246-7105, send e-mail to Iplumley@home.com, or visit me on the internet at http://members.home.com/lplumley/index.htm.
Very best wishes, and happy reading!
Lisa Plumley

Come the Spring 		
by Cynthia Thomason					$
CHAPTER ONE
Something powerful and inexplicably wonderful possessed Joanna Archer that Sunday morning in May. How else could she explain what drew her to the colorful, handprinted sign that boasted, "The Biggest and Best Garage Sale Ever."
"You never go to garage sales," Joanna reminded herself even as she swung her Toyota Celica onto the crowded brick-paved driveway. In this way she was different from her mother. Evelyn Archer always said that one man's junk was another man's treasure. With the exception of a few fine antiques, Joanna believed that new, fresh and clean was always better than old, used and in need of repair. The only child of a struggling single mother, Joanna graduated from college and vowed she would never rely on anyone's hand-me-downs again.
She shut her car door and walked toward the congestion of tables and bargain hunters. "Oh, what the heck," she said. "Maybe I'll get lucky and find something special."
Joanna did find something special, and she did, indeed, get very lucky.
She didn't know what made her pick up the antique photo album. She didn't even browse. It was as if it called to her from the wobbly metal folding table where it was mixed in with an assortment of household items. For reasons that were purely mystifying at the time, Joanna knew at once she simply had to have it.
The book was bound in leather and had an ornate, hand-tooled gold border. It was worn and shiny from the oil of many fingers, and when Joanna picked it up, such a delightful sensation of discovery rippled through her that she was, from that moment on, reluctant to put it down. It was solid and comfortably heavy in her palms, its smooth cover warm from the sun, and she felt complete, as though it had always belonged with her.
She opened the album to the first page, and a mature, attractive face with soft, doelike eyes looked back at her. Though the photo was faded from age, there was enough clarity of detail for Joanna to form an opinion about the woman in the picture.
She seemed to possess a whimsical character at odds with the starched white collar that stood stiffly against her throat. There was an indefinable spirit of youthfulness that defied the gray hair brushed back from her forehead in a staid pompadour. The woman's lips were pressed together, but it appeared she really wanted to smile and defy the strict dictates of photography in her day. Underneath her photo, still legible after over a hundred and thirty years, was the penned line, "Lila Gallagher Hardesty, 1865."
Joanna turned the page, and the next photo sent a wave of pure delight coursing through her. Part of the Hardesty family legacy was a charming, three-story white house with gable windows in the attic. It was identified in the same clear handwriting as “The Hardesty Homestead on Divinity Mountain, Pinkney Falls, Georgia."
Other family members whose pictures were taken in 1865 were identified on succeeding pages. A female was always on the left side of the page, and a male on the right. Cyril Leon Shelby sat opposite Adele Hardesty Shelby. Joshua Hugh Hardesty gazed upon the portrait of Susan Randolph Hardesty. Three young children, none of whom could have reached the age of six, were perched on a veranda bench with their arms around each other. They were listed simply as "Lindy, David, and Clayton."
Portraits of the Hardestys and their home had been taken throughout the years. As their numbers grew, so did the house, with additions built to make room for a maturing family. The last picture of the homestead on Divinity Mountain was taken in May, 1892. Opposite it was a panoramic photograph of tree-topped rolling hills. It was labeled simply, "Springtime in the Georgia mountains."
The very last portrait in the book was also taken in 1892. It was Clayton Hardesty, recognizable as the little boy in the earlier photo. However, the adult Clayton had a warmth in his clear eyes and an easy half smile on his handsome face that nearly took Joanna's breath away. His inscription read, "My little Clayton, all grown up." The framing sleeve opposite Clayton's was empty. Did this mean that Clayton was the last of the Hardestys? That he never married? Why these questions should even come to Joanna's mind, she didn't know. It wasn't likely that she would ever uncover the answers.
With the album tucked under her arm, Joanna searched for a person who might be in charge of the garage sale. She spotted a woman with tightly permed hair who was stuffing money into the pockets of a carpenter's apron. "How much do you want for this?" Joanna asked, showing her the book.
The woman wrinkled her nose. “That old thing? I should pay you to take it. It belonged to some twice-removed relative of my ex-husband's and is the last reminder I have of the shortest marriage on record." She rolled her eyes toward a man in flowered shorts who Joanna assumed was the current spouse. "If it had been up to him, we'd have thrown that old book away years ago, but I figured somebody might get a kick out of it someday. And, besides, why not get a few bucks for it?"
"Sure, why not?" Joanna said. "I kind of like it Maybe I just appreciate it for its age."
"It's old, all right. All those people are dead now, not that anybody cares anymore."
Joanna almost shouted at her. / care! I don't know why, but I do. For some strange reason she had taken Mrs. Permed Hair's cynical remark personally. She clutched the book more tightly. "So how much do you want for it?"
The unexpected interest must have made the woman reconsider its worth, because she gave the album a thoughtful appraisal. "Still, it is an antique ..."
"Yes, I suppose so. How much?"
"Ten dollars. I really can't take any less."
Joanna didn't even think of arguing. "Fine." She paid for the book and took it to her car. Then she headed straight for her condominium on Fort Lauderdale's Harbor Beach.
When she arrived home, Joanna noticed Steve's BMW in the driveway. He must have let himself in with his key. Normally she didn't mind him taking such a liberty, but today she couldn't suppress a wave of disappointment at seeing he was two hours early for their date. She had been looking forward to having time alone with the album.
You 're being silly, Joanna, she reprimanded herself. You should be willing even anxious to share your discovery with Steve. After all, you've been going with the guy for two years. For Pete's sake, you're practically married.
A frown tugged at the corners of her mouth. Practically married. There was still no ring on her finger, and lately Joanna's biological clock had begun to race with alarming speed. Yesterday, May fifteenth, had been her twenty-ninth birthday. She had celebrated half-heartedly, because all she could really think about was how her goal of having a family still loomed in an uncertain future.
Steve said he wanted kids ... sometime, but he always avoided a serious discussion on the topic by saying they had plenty of years ahead of them to worry about that. "Why change things when they're going so great for us?" he argued, so Joanna waited for the next opportunity to express her concerns.
Even though time flew by like flipping calendar pages in a nineteen thirties movie, Joanna still believed Steve would come around to her way of thinking. But that was before the album changed everything.
Coming into her villa, Joanna dropped her purse and keys on the almond lacquer credenza by the front door. Dazzling rays of sun speared through the skylight and reflected off white walls adorned with prints of pastel art deco buildings.
She looked for Steve. There was no evidence he had been sitting on the cream-colored leather sofa since the earthtone throw pillows were still perfectly plumped. And the brass and glass tables flanking the sofa were as free of clutter as she had left them two hours before.
She finally spotted him through the double French doors leading to the patio. Wearing swim trunks and one of her towels around his shoulders, he strolled in from the beach. "Hi, babe," he said, leaving a sandy track on the Mexican tile of the living room. "Did you go shopping?"
"Sort of."
He went to the teak bar in the corner of the spacious room and fixed himself a gin and tonic. Tilting the glass at Joanna, he asked, "Want one?"
Disapproval edged her otherwise calm tone. "Steve, it's only eleven-thirty in the morning."
His eyebrows arched in surprise. "It's Sunday, Joanna. It's not like we're punching a time clock." He sat on one of the bar stools and stirred his drink with a glass swizzle stick. "I came a little early for a swim. Hope you don't mind."
"No, of course not." She really didn't, did she?
"So, what do you mean by sort of shopping?" His cool, gray gaze shifted to the photo album she still held in her hand.
"I went . . . well, I stopped at a garage sale."
He hooted with laughter.  “A garage sale! Have you fallen on hard times I should know about before this relationship goes any farther?"
He knew darned well she hadn't. Her design boutique which featured unusual and exquisite decorator accessories from around the globe was one of the hottest shops in the city. She dealt in everything from antiques to hard-to-find objects. Her customers knew that if they wanted the perfect accessory for a particular spot in their homes, Joanna wouldn't stop until she found it. She held up the album so Steve could see it, and patiently smiled at him. "I know this must seem strange to you, but look what I found. It's so old, it fascinated me."
He took the album and opened it to the first page, the photo of Lila Gallagher Hardesty. "Wow, will you look at her." Thumbing through the pages, without pausing to really see the faces of the Hardesty family or the beauty of their simple home, he finally said, "How folksy, Joanna. I'll bet these people sweat honey."
He tossed the book on the coffee table. "I can see why you bought this, babe. It definitely belongs in your villa, just erase Hardesty and write in Archer. It'll make people think you came from the backbone of America instead of those question marks that make up the branches of your real family tree."
The last thing Joanna needed to hear right then was an exposition on the differences between Steve's Ivy League background and her almost nonexistent one. She picked up the album and held it close, feeling a sudden, irrational need to protect it. "Not everyone has a pedigree, Steve. Lots of people struggle to make ends meet, and my mother did the best she could. I'd appreciate it if you didn't insinuate that we are somehow inferior to your family."
He appeared genuinely repentant. "No offense, Joanna. I didn't mean anything by it. I know how close you were to your mother. It was a joke, that's all."
She suddenly felt silly for attacking him. Of course he would think she bought the album on a lark. All anyone had to do was look around her apartment, and they would know an antique photo album of someone else's family was the last item that fit in. "No, I'm sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have snapped at you."
He lowered his voice to a sympathetic purr, making her feel even more guilty for treating him unjustly. "Where's this coming from, Joanna? Why are you so sensitive today?"
"I'm not," she lied. "I overreacted, that's all. I didn't buy the album to invent a family for myself, and I didn't buy it as a joke." Unable to come up with a logical explanation for why she actually did buy the book, she said, "I just think it's a shame that someone's precious memories should end up being sold at a garage sale to a stranger."
He executed the prize-winning grin that lit up any room. "It is definitely precious," he repeated. "The most precious little book I've ever seen."
"Steve ..."
He held his palms up in a gesture of defense. "Hey, don't jump down my throat again. I see now that this is a sympathy trip for you."
Now she felt completely childish. Looking down at the album, she said, "I probably shouldn't have bought it. But it touched me somehow."
"Well, if it's touching you want, you've come to the right place." He set his glass down and ran his hands along Joanna's bare arms.
She backed away, unreasonably self-conscious at his intimacy. She couldn't remember ever feeling that way before. "You never take me seriously, do you?"
"I thought I was taking you seriously right now." He reached to take the album from her. "Why don't you put that silly thing down, so you can give me the attention you've been giving it since you walked in the door."
Joanna glanced at her watch without relinquishing the album. "We're due at Rick and Natalie's at one-thirty, aren't we?"
"So? There's time."
"No, there isn't. I've got to get ready. I have to wash my hair and iron my shorts and ..."
"Okay, okay." He brushed her forehead with a kiss. "But don't think I won't remember where we left off."
******************
That night when Steve brought her home, Joanna told him she had a headache. She almost convinced herself it was true. Something inside her most definitely ached to be alone with the album again. When Steve left, she sat on the sofa, picked up the book and studied the familiar faces once more.
She looked at the house on Divinity Mountain and tried to pick out the tiniest details through the faded sepia tones.  A wide veranda stretched across the entire front, giving the structure a warm, sit-a-spell feeling. Flowers dripped from pots hanging at intervals from the porch ceiling. It was a house that had been loved and cared for by the people who lived there.
Skipping several pages, Joanna stopped at the last photograph, the one of Clayton Hardesty. She wished the photo were in color instead of black and white. She could tell his hair was light, and she sensed a gentle nature in his warm eyes, but this only left her wanting to know the most specific details of his appearance, the exact hues and tones that defined him. He was wearing a form-fitting dark suit, and his hair, thick and wavy, brushed his high collar.
"Oh, yes," Joanna said. "That adorable little boy from the front porch definitely became a most attractive man. What would they have called you in your day, Clayton?" Dreamboat came to mind.
She looked again at the vacant sleeve next to Clayton's picture and gave in to an overwhelming melancholy. How sad that Clayton Hardesty, so young and handsome, should face eternity with only a blank page on which to cast those haunting eyes.
When she finally closed the album, Joanna had memorized every detail of Clayton's face. She fell asleep pondering the mysteries of his life. What had happened to him? What had he become? Did he live out his life on Divinity Mountain?
******************
Sometime in the middle of the night, a series of minuscule vibrations spider-webbed throughout Joanna's nervous system. On some level, she was aware of the subtle tremors, but did not fully awaken. Instead, she gave herself up to a delicious light-headedness and an agreeable floating sensation that left her feeling as if her body were being transported on a gentle gust of air.
Perhaps it was an astral journey, though Joanna had never put any faith in the paranormal. No matter. The result was extraordinarily memorable. Her short, altogether pleasant projection through the cosmos of dreams left her standing on a mountainside in front of a familiar white house.
She walked up three steps and crossed a pine plank porch. When no one answered the front door, she turned the knob and went inside without hesitation.
She entered a cozy parlor. A low fire, crackling with pinecones, burned in a brick fireplace. A floral chintz sofa sat against one wall. Above it on pine shelves was a collection of wood carvings, ducks, dogs, and farm animals. A golden oak coffee table held a basket of knitting, copies of The Ladies' Home Journal, and a pair of wire reading glasses.
Joanna glided through an arched doorway to a dining room. Crocheted doilies marked each place at an apple green harvest table. A walnut sideboard with a painted-tile backsplash stood against one wall. Dinnerware was stacked on its marble surface as if someone soon would come and set the table.
Joanna proceeded through a swinging door to a large, sunny kitchen. A wooden bowl sat in the center of a scarred scrub table. It was piled high with peaches, still green but left to ripen in the sunlight striking the table.
Gingham curtains fluttering at the window beckoned Joanna to look outside. She gazed over the top of an herb garden and saw neat furrows of a tiered vegetable garden breaking the expanse of rye grass that reached to the tree line.
And then, without seeming to move, she was in the parlor again, standing next to an oak book stand. On its polished surface was the Hardesty album opened to the last page. Clayton looked back at her with the soft, gentle eyes she had come to know so well. But this time there was a picture of a woman opposite his. She was smiling, her head tilted slightly to the side so that in her captured moment of immortality, she could gaze lovingly on the image of Clayton Hardesty.
She had shoulder-length hair, somewhere between light-and medium-colored. High cheekbones framed a slender, upturned nose. Though her smile was for the man she loved, it seemed a familiar smile to Joanna, as if she had seen it for years.
In her sleep, Joanna sighed with contentment knowing that the woman in the album loved Clayton so deeply. The sound of her own breath caused her to wake with a start. With absolute clarity she recalled the details of her dream. In one electrifying moment, Joanna knew who the woman in the album was. She ran into the bathroom and turned on the light.
She had seen her reflection in the gilded framed mirror hundreds of times, but in the middle of this unforgettable night it was as if she were seeing herself for the first time. She lifted a strand of shoulder-length auburn hair, stared into green eyes that suddenly appeared more expressive than they ever had before. Her prominent cheekbones were tinged pink with the magnitude of her discovery. Her full lips were parted in wonder.
"It's you," she breathed at the woman looking back at her. "You're the one whose eyes shine with love for Clayton Hardesty."
******************
"C'mon, sleepy-head. It's nearly eight o'clock."
Joanna opened her eyes and stared up from her sofa at Steve's tall, Nautilus-built frame.
"Feeling better?" he asked.
"What? What do you mean?"
"Your headache. Is it gone?"
"Yes. I'm fine."
He leaned over her and peered into her face. "You may say that, but you look like hell. Your eyes are bloodshot."
"You know flattery never works on me," she grumbled. "What are you doing here so early, anyway?"
"I thought we'd go out for breakfast and then pick up a few things for the islands."
Breakfast. Okay, that was a concept she understood. The islands. He had lost her there. She had better get her mind in gear and actually face this day. "What are you talking about?"
"Joanna, what's wrong with you? We're sailing to Treasure Cay tomorrow on Les and Elaine's Morgan, remember?" Her face must not have shown any signs of recognition, or even intelligence, because he started giving her clues. "They're our friends . . . he's my law partner. I took time off, and you got Gail to cover the shop. Ring any bells?"
She slumped back against the sofa, remembering. "Of course. The Bahamas trip. I must have forgotten."
His fists landed on his hips, and his jaw dropped. "How could you forget a thing like this? Where's your mind?"
His question was answered when her gaze darted to the coffee table. The album was still open to the last page. There was Clayton Hardesty and next to him, of course, an empty sleeve. If Steve wanted to know where her mind was, he knew then.
His voice shot up a notch. "It's that damned book again. You stayed up half the night staring at the stupid album."
She shrugged an admission and attempted a little grin. It came off as guilty.
Steve started pacing. "Yesterday you hardly spoke three sentences to Rick and Natalie. Obviously your mind was off in space somewhere that didn't include the rest of us. This morning it's the same thing. You're starting to worry me, Joanna."
"I know. I'm sorry. I can't explain it."
Words failed him for a minute as he stood waggling a finger at the album. Finally he found his voice again. "I want you to get rid of it. You had no business buying it in the first place. They're a bunch of strangers for God's sake. They don't mean anything to you. This is foolish, Joanna!"
Okay, you 're right. I'm foolish . . . maybe even a little crazy. But you're wrong, too. They do mean something to me. What, I don't know, but definitely something. Joanna's next words burst through her lips without any warning. "Steve, I'm flying to Atlanta today." She had made the decision without even realizing it, but she felt so much better having made it.
"You're going to Atlanta." He said the words with a controlled anger . . . like he was trying to cope with the incoherent ramblings of a child. "That's just great. Let me guess. This has something to do with that album and this family of John Does. You're actually going to try and find this . . . this ..." He rapidly turned the pages in the album. "Pinkney Freaking Falls!"
"I'm going to return it, Steve, or try to anyway."
He entered courtroom mode, strutting in front of her. If he had had a suit on, he would have grasped the lapels of the jacket. "I don't believe this. You buy a book full of pictures of people you don't know, who, incidentally, are all dead, and you're going to return it to a place you've never been, to a house that probably doesn't even exist anymore."
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury . . .
"Now I ask you, Joanna, is this the act of a rational woman?"
How could she argue? "No, I guess it isn't. But I've got to do this. I have a feeling ..."
"Obsession is more like it! What about our trip to the islands? Is this album caper more important to you than I am?"
She reached for his arm, but he jerked away. "Steve, this isn't a contest. Of course you're more important. I won't miss the trip. I'll catch a flight back tonight. Even if I have problems, the worst that could happen is that I'll end up flying to Treasure Cay and meeting you."
He stopped pacing, but his canvas-clad toe tapped an angry beat against Joanna's tile floor. "I hope so, Joanna. This would be a little hard to explain to Les. He deals with hysterical women every day in divorce court, but even he wouldn't understand this nonsense."
He stormed to the door, but turned to glare at her one last time. "I expect to see you on that boat tomorrow, Joanna."
******************
Using her Rand McNally book of U.S. maps, Joanna finally spotted the small print that identified Pinkney Falls in Habersham County Georgia. She judged it to be about ninety miles northeast of Atlanta. The town was situated on a road the mapmaker had drawn with a thin, gray line. Not a good sign for a woman used to driving on six lanes of city asphalt.
She took a sip of coffee and listened to the reservations agent at Delta Airlines. "I have one seat available for the nine-forty-five flight to Atlanta," she said. "Would you like to guarantee that reservation with a credit card?"
Joanna looked at her kitchen clock. She could make it since she only lived ten minutes from the airport. She recited the numbers of her American Express card and asked about return flights.
"All our return seats are sold out, Miss Archer. I can confirm a spot tomorrow afternoon, and you can call later to see if we've had a cancellation today, or you can attempt to get on standby tonight."
Confident she would manage to get on a flight that night, Joanna hung up and then followed the only rational impulse she had had since buying the album. It was something she probably should have done before securing her plane ticket. She decided to try and find out if any Hardestys still lived in or around Pinkney Falls. She got the number she needed from the Bell South information operator.
A friendly male voice answered on the first ring. "Habersham County Records."
Joanna took a deep breath. "Hello. My name is Joanna Archer, and I'm looking for some old friends who lived in Pinkney Falls. Their last name is Hardesty."
"Well now," the man said. "Hardesty's been a common name around these parts for years."
"Really? Could you tell me if any of the family still resides in Pinkney Falls?"
"Prob'ly could . .. if you give me a written request."
"A written request?"
"That's Habersham County policy. And even then, I couldn't give out county records information over the phone. You got to request it in writing and in person. Why don't you come on by and we'll have a look-see what we can find."
"Couldn't you at least tell me if you think there are Hardestys still in the area?"
There was a pause. Maybe he was thinking about bending the rules a little. "Wouldn't be surprised if there were," he finally said. "Though maybe not in Pinkney Falls. Isn't much going on there these days. Most of the new homes are being built to the soutj and west, toward Atlanta. Sometimes folks go to the waterfall for a Sunday picnic, but other than that, you don't hear a lot about the town of Pinkney."
It wasn't much to go on, but Joanna did have a glimmer of hope that she might be able to locate a descendent of the Hardestys who would be glad to have the album back in the family. She thanked the clerk for his help and told him she would be there shortly for that "look-see." He promised to dig up what he could from the county archives.
She took her nylon carry-on bag out of her closet and threw in the barest essentials she would need for a short trip ... a few grooming items and one change of clothes. She secured her wallet and cell phone in the zippered pocket, then wrapped the album in tissue paper and placed it on top of her other belongings.
She showered and dried her hair in fifteen minutes and threw on a silk blouse, jeans and her Reeboks. If she was following the biggest wild goose chase of her life, at least she would be comfortable doing it.

CHAPTER TWO
Joanna studied the detailed map on the counter at National Car Rental. There it was . . . Divinity Mountain, right next to Pinkney Falls. She looked up at the clerk and pointed to her destination. "Will I need a four-wheel drive to get up that mountain?" she asked.
"Couldn't hurt," he said. "How 'bout a Jeep Cherokee? Got one left."
It sounded practical to Joanna. She filled out a rental form, and ten minutes later, with a copy of National's map on the seat next to her, she headed northeast out of the city. The fairly straight, red marker line the clerk had drawn for her followed major highways for many miles and then suddenly disappeared into chicken scratching. Divinity Mountain.
******************
Joanna had just finished a plastic-wrapped sandwich she had bought in an airport vending machine when she saw two road signs side by side. The larger one pointed to a narrow, black-topped road which curved away from Georgia Route 23 and headed toward the county seat. The smaller sign indicated a gravel road which angled off the highway and was almost hidden by tree branches and overgrown plants. Incredibly it pointed the way to Divinity Mountain.
The temptation was too strong. Joanna chose the gravel road, the tires of the Cherokee spinning loose stones as she cut the wheel to the right. The road immediately twisted into a series of sharp curves that headed up the mountainside.
Though passable, at times the road narrowed to a width of only one lane. If another vehicle had been traveling down the mountain, one of the two drivers would have had to give way to the other.
Joanna tooted her horn at every blind curve to warn oncoming traffic of her presence. She needn't have bothered. She never encountered another soul on the lonely stretch of road up Divinity Mountain.
Progressing at less than ten miles an hour, Joanna had a difficult time judging how far she had come. But she estimated she had gone about a mile when she was forced to bring the Jeep to an abrupt halt. A chasm split the roadway and was blocked by a rustic plank sign that said, "Danger. Bridge Out." She pulled the Cherokee into some trees at the side of the road and got out to investigate.
Wooden remains of what might have been a bridge lay at the bottom of a ravine. "Oh, this is a wonderful way to waste a couple of hours," she said. "Now I have to turn around and go back the way I came."
She looked across the gully at the gravel road which continued up the part of Divinity Mountain it appeared she was fated never to see. What if she turned back now and missed the opportunity to see the house in Lila Hardesty's album? Maybe it still existed just up the mountain, beyond the next curve. "You're not coming this far to give up now," she said to herself.
Estimating the width of the chasm, Joanna decided that an Olympic broad jumper might be able to leap across, but she certainly couldn't. The depth, however, was manageable. It wasn't more than a fifteen-foot climb to the bottom. Adrenaline pumped through her veins at the prospect of continuing her adventure. "Go for it, Joanna. You'll never be back this way again."
She returned to the Cherokee to retrieve her carry-on bag. At the last minute she removed the bills from her wallet, folded them into her pocket, and then left the wallet and her cell phone under the front seat of the vehicle. If the floor of that gully was muddy or wet, she didn't want to risk losing her identification or damaging her three-hundred-dollar phone. She strapped the nylon bag on her back, stuffed her keys in her pocket and went back to the edge of the ravine.
Going down was not really too hard. Her jeans protected her legs from prickly outcroppings of brush and shrubs, and her Reeboks provided adequate footing on the damp, mossy soil. In fact, Joanna had almost considered taking up backpacking as a hobby when an unexpected drop in temperature at the gully floor sent shivers of both cold and apprehension down her spine. One moment she had been perspiring with the exertion of her descent, and the next she was rubbing her arms to ward off the effects of a blast of frigid air.
Within a minute she was freezing. "Get outta here, Joanna," she exclaimed, searching for the easiest and fastest route up the ravine wall. Before she could start her ascent, however, a cold, damp mist swept down the gully and filled the space around her.
She could no longer see her watch, but knew it was barely two o'clock on what had been a warm, sunny afternoon. Strange time for a fog, she thought, but this thick mist was unlike any fog she had ever seen before. The condensation was so gray it appeared almost blue in the meager pinpoints of sun that somehow managed to spear through the soupy mixture.
Joanna's shoes became mired in decaying leaves and gnarly root systems that spread along the base of the gully. At the very deepest part, she stepped in a swiftly moving current of water that carried debris over the tops of her shoes. Icy water soaked the bottom of her jeans. She wanted to run, to climb up to a place that was dry and warm, but she couldn't see which way to go.
"Don't panic," she told herself as the wind picked up and howled around her ears. "Stay calm. This crazy smog is at least moving, so it can't stay like this forever." She managed to keep a level head despite the blue-gray mist eddying around her so thickly she couldn't physically separate her own body from the fog. She blindly groped through the swirling atmosphere until she lunged forward and finally emerged into clear, crisp air.
And then it was over. The fog lifted, the moisture evaporated, and the temperature began to rise. Joanna still shivered, but not just because her clothes were wet and her Reeboks were caked with mud. She was certain she had just witnessed a meteorological aberration that belonged in the record books.
Even if I could describe this, nobody would believe me, she thought. A sudden logical impulse tempted her to walk down the gully bed and trace the path of the mist to try and understand its origin, but the idea of what she might encounter dissuaded her from doing so. Some things defied explanation and were best left alone. Besides, warm sunlight once again filled the ravine, illuminating the path to the top. So Joanna began her upward climb to the other side of the ravine that had stood between her and Divinity Mountain.
When she reached the gravel road, she looked back over the chasm expecting to see something of the Cherokee. Apparently she had driven too far into the trees, because she couldn't see any trace of it. But after what she had just been through, she took comfort in knowing it was there. Then, in search of the Hardesty house, she followed the narrow path around a sharp curve.
Before she had gone more than a quarter of a mile, there was a break in a dense line of trees, and it suddenly appeared ... a familiar, three-story white house with gable windows. It rested on a plateau of level land that looked to have been carved into the rock side of the mountain.
The Hardesty house sat nestled in the shade of tall trees. Spring flowers bordered the brick pathway to the front porch. A feeling of contentment melted the last of the ravine's chill away. "It looks just like it did then," Joanna said.
She walked slowly toward the house, taking in every delightful, magical detail: the pots hanging from the porch, the bench where the Hardesty children had sat for their portrait over one hundred years before. Obviously each succeeding generation of Hardestys had valued the house as much as the last, keeping it lovingly restored. This mountain setting was a bond linking father to son over the years, and it was evidenced in this wonderful home. She neared the front porch, satisfied that her decision to return the album had been the right one.
Quite unexpectedly a shrill barking shattered the stillness of the warm spring afternoon and scattered the sweet images in Joanna's mind. From around the corner of the house a ball of wheat-colored fur barreled toward her with fangs bared and cockles raised. She backed away from the approaching tempest, but a set of sharp teeth clamped on to the hem of her wet jeans.
She shook her leg vigorously and jumped on one foot. "Go away! Let go! Bad dog!" The creature had a mind of its own as well as powerful jaw muscles. Joanna kept her leg moving at a furious pace while she looked around for some means of self-defense.
"Midnight, sit!" A commanding voice echoed off the mountain wall and had an immediate sobering effect on the four-legged creature from hell. It sat back on its haunches, cocked its head at Joanna and let out a little whimper. The beast almost appeared tame. No, it definitely appeared tame compared to the human being who belonged to the booming voice.
The man was at least six feet, three inches tall. Dressed in denim pants and flannel shirt, with wide suspenders stretched over broad shoulders, he was a living symbol of Paul Bunyan, complete with a huge ax swinging from his hand. Joanna half expected to see a gigantic blue ox following behind him.
She stood her ground as the man came closer, even though she could feel her heartbeat in her throat. He moved with such purposeful intensity, she was surprised the ground didn't tremble under her feet. Then he was close enough for her to see the details of his face, and the effect on her dumbstruck senses couldn't have been greater if his big fist had punched her right in the stomach and knocked her off her feet.
She had seen him before. She knew his face as well as if he were part of her own family. The man who was the spitting image of Clayton Hardesty looked her straight in her eyes, pointed toward the devil dog and said, "Sorry. She gets a little excited."
The only way for Joanna to jump start her stunned mind was to avoid the lumberjack's penetrating eyes which were so like his ancestor's. She looked down at the kamikaze fur ball instead. "Quite an adorable little pooch you have there."
"Well, it was partly your fault."
Her gaze snapped back to Clayton Hardesty's look-alike. "What did you say?"
"If you'd just stood still, she wouldn't have held on. Dogs sense when you don't like them, and then they won't back off."
"So it's my doggie manners that are the problem?" she said. "I suppose you'd like me to apologize to . . ."
"Midnight. No, you don't have to do that." He looked down at the little darling, who was now wagging dusty arcs in the dirt with her long tail. "She's already forgiven you."
Joanna regarded the ax man coolly. "What a relief." The dog's coat shone golden in the afternoon light. "She looks more like a 'Sunrise' than a 'Midnight' if you ask me."
"Might be, but she was born at midnight, and Gran was there to see it happen. She always names the animals born on this place in a way that commemorates their births."
The lumberjack leaned his ax handle against his leg and crossed his arms over his chest. "Speaking of names, I didn't get yours."
"I didn't give it," she answered. "But it's Archer, Joanna Archer."
He pulled a pocket watch out of his shirt. "You're late, Jo. We expected you this morning."
"What? How could you be expecting me?"
"Heard in town you were coming. But I figured it'd be well before mid-afternoon."
She remembered her call to county records that morning. The man she had talked to had sure gotten the word out fast. She should have anticipated as much from smalltown gossip mills. "I didn't know there was a tardy bell, professor."
“No bell," he said. "Just think if you make a commitment, you ought to keep it." An appraising gaze started at her hair and worked its way down the length of her. It was followed by a slight twitching of the ax man's upper lip. "Tell me something, Jo. Why are you dressed like a boy? It's quite obvious you aren't one. And we didn't want you here to do field work."
Not usually prone to self-consciousness, Joanna felt a tingling heat creep up her neck to her face. She grimaced down at her jeans that looked like they had indeed been dragged through a field. "Boy's clothes?" she snapped back at him. "These are Calvin Klein's."
One eyebrow climbed his forehead. "Then I'd suggest you give them back to him. You'd look a lot better in a dress."
Either this guy had a colossal attitude problem or he had lived his life raised by wolves in a cave. A lot he knew about fashion. His own denim pants were baggy enough to fit two men! And to think he resembled that handsome, gentle man from the album. He was nothing like Clayton Hardesty. "Look, Mr. ..."
He removed his wide-brimmed leather hat, and a shock of light brown hair fell onto his forehead. "Hardesty," he said. "Clayton Hardesty."
The final insult... southern tradition carried out to a fault. He even had Clayton's name.
Joanna reined in her temper and smiled sweetly. "Mr. Hardesty, I came here for a specific reason."
"I know that."
"Fine. Once it's taken care of, I'll be on my way."
He nodded. "You'll want to see Gran, then. Here she comes now. She'll tell you what you have to do."
"I don't have to do anything ..." Oh, what's the use. Joanna turned in the direction of Clayton Hardesty's gaze and saw a petite, gray-haired woman coming their way. "Never mind. Is that Mrs. Hardesty?" At Clayton's assent, she added, "I'll talk to her. Sometimes two women can communicate more easily." Than one woman and one obtuse male!
Once again Joanna was awestruck with the mysterious potency of the Hardesty family gene pool. Except for a distinctive "farm" look, and a few age lines, Clayton's Gran looked very much like the 1865 picture of Lila Gallagher Hardesty. If she had had her hair combed in a pompadour, and if she were wearing a high-necked blouse instead of a long cotton dress and apron, she would have been a dead ringer for the original.
After they had been introduced, Joanna said, "Mrs. Hardesty, I've brought something with me that I think you'll be very happy to see."
"That's nice, dear," she said, taking Joanna's arm. "Let's go in the house. There's so much to do in there, I just don't know where to begin." Looking Joanna squarely in her eyes, she added, not unkindly, "And we are a little late getting started." She glanced over Joanna's shoulder at the nylon bag. "Is that all the clothing you've brought with you?"
"It's enough," Joanna said. "I probably won't even need all I brought."
"My, you must be a clever packer," Mrs. Hardesty commented.
******************
Watching the subtle sway of Jo's hips in those tight-fitting boy's pants, Clayton Hardesty could almost convince himself that she wasn't such a disagreeable female after all. He didn't know if she appealed to him or irritated the hell out of him. She was an independent, outspoken woman. That he knew for certain.
She couldn't have come from any of the towns around Pinkney Falls or he would have seen her before. He hadn't been living in Asheville long enough to forget a woman who looked like she did. Jo Archer sure wasn't built like a mountain girl, either. She didn't look like she had enough muscles to pick up a teacup, much less cart all those things down from the attic and help Gran clean and polish them all.
And she sure wasn't a stickler for rules. The sign he had posted at the dry goods store in Pinkney Falls said he needed a girl promptly at nine o'clock. And this saucy little filly showed up nearly five hours late!
He picked up his ax, and the movement stirred the air around him. She sure smells good, though, Clayton concluded, catching a whiff of fragrance she had left in her wake. It was unlike anything he had ever smelled before. It wasn't lilac or lavender, like most of the women he knew wore on Sundays. It was spicy and exotic... or at least the closest thing to exotic a man from Divinity Mountain had ever sniffed.
Clayton went around to the back of the house and continued chopping wood for Gran's stove. He had only managed a few solid swings of his ax when Gran burst out the back door, her eyes wide with fright and her voice piercing the air.
"Clayton, come here, quick! That poor child's fainted dead away on the kitchen floor!"
CHAPTER THREE
She was out cold. Clayton scooped Jo up in his arms and carried her to the small bedroom next to the kitchen that Gran had made up for her stay. He laid her down on the feather mattress and slipped the top button of her blouse free of its loop.
Gran slapped his hand away. "What in the world are you doing, Clayton?"
"I'm a doctor, Gran, remember?"
"A horse doctor."
"Veterinarian."
"Horse doctor to me."
He sighed with exasperation. "Look, Gran, does it really matter? Certain principles apply to all living creatures who have suffered a temporary lack of oxygen to the brain. First, you give them plenty of room and fresh air, and if it's a human, you loosen the clothing."
Gran was not easily dissuaded. She undid Jo's second button herself and spread the yoke of her blouse, making sure that modesty prevailed. "If there's any loosenin' to be done, I'm the one who'll do it. You check her pulse or some other such thing to make yourself useful."
Clayton didn't argue. He could see that color was already returning to Jo's cheeks. He held her wrist and found her pulse strong and steady. "What happened, Gran?"
She returned from the washstand in the corner of the room and draped a damp cloth over Jo's forehead. "It was the strangest thing, Clayton," she said. "Jo started acting odd the minute we went into the house. She looked around the parlor like she was memorizing it or something. Studied those ol' animal carvings and then went over to the book stand where I used to keep the album.
"She went real slow through the dining room to the kitchen and did the same thing. Just sort of stared at everything." Gran raised her index finger as a thought occurred to her. "She must have been real hungry, Clayton, 'cause she took one of those green peaches out of the bowl. Doesn't surprise me . . . she's practically skin and bones.
"Anyway, I said, 'You can't eat that, Jo. It's not ripe yet.' I offered to get her a biscuit, but she said no. Pride, I guess. Well, anyway, I thought to get her mind off things by talking about the auction and what all we had to do before Sunday. I got the calendar off the wall and showed her when the sale was going to be. And that's when I learned that Jo can't re00ad."
"Can't r0ead?" Jo Archer didn't appear to suffer from a limited vocabulary or the spunk to use it. Clayton was amazed she couldn't read. "How'd you find that out, Gran?"
"Well, her eyes just sort of locked on to that calendar like Midnight grabs on to a bone. Wouldn't let go. Finally she said, 'Mrs. Hardesty, what does that calendar say?' "
" 'It says, Jessup's Dry Goods over in Pinkney Falls,' I told her. 'Just advertising is all.' "
"And then what happened?"
"Then I found out she didn't know her numbers, either. She said, 'No, not that. What year is it?'
"Course I told her. 'Eighteen ninety-three,' I said. Clayton, that child turned as white as a ghost, and that's when she fell flat on the floor." Gran clucked her tongue. "Can you imagine not even knowin' what year it is. Where's this poor girl been, do you suppose? Do you think it's possible she's addled somehow?"
Clayton rubbed the day's growth of stubble on his chin. "No. She is as sane as you or me and as sure of herself as any woman I've ever met. And she doesn't appear sick. But you're right, Gran. If she's staying here for a week, we'd better find out a little more about her, like where she comes from."
"That's another thing," Gran added. "How could she come here prepared to stay a week with no more than she could fit in that little ol' bag of hers?" Gran placed her hand on her own ample bosom. "My heart aches for her, Clayton. Here she is near starving to death with little more than a few possessions to her name. Life just isn't fair sometimes."
Clayton removed Jo's wet shoes and socks and held them up for Gran to see. "Doesn't even have a decent pair of wool stockings or work shoes either." He pulled a quilt over Jo's knees. "I suggest we go back to the kitchen and wait until she comes around. We'll find out more then."
******************
Joanna wiggled her toes against stitched cotton and snuggled deeper into the soft cushion of something that smelled like a combination of bleach and fresh air. Goose down, her subconscious concluded. Nice. A down-filled comforter at Bloomingdale's would cost a fortune. She sensed sunlight on her eyelids, but refused to raise them. Instead she stretched contentedly like a cat after an afternoon nap.
She had almost fallen back to sleep when something with the consistency of sandpaper brushed across her chin and cheek, bringing her to a startled alertness. She sat up and stared into a pair of nut brown eyes partially hidden by scraggly tan fur. "Oh, not you again," she said.
Midnight licked her once more and struck a challenging pose on Joanna's chest, her front paws poised on each collarbone.
"Don't think I've forgotten," Joanna groaned, deciding whether or not she should risk trying to set the animal on the floor. With everything else that had happened, she didn't think she could abide another attack from the canine commando. Thankfully Midnight decided to give her a break. She cocked her head to the side to get one last look at the trespasser and then darted off the bed.
Joanna concentrated on where she was and how she had gotten there. She had awakened in a small, pleasant room. Gauze curtains billowed away from the window. A wash-stand holding a crockery pitcher and bowl occupied one corner. She was in an old-fashioned iron bed with brass pineapples at the tops of the four low posters. I'm still dreaming, she concluded. That's what this is, another dream. It's time to wake up, Joanna!
A smiling, gray-haired woman wearing wire-rimmed spectacles stepped cautiously into the room and approached the bed, dispelling Joanna's notion that this was anything other than reality. This woman was real enough and so was the recollection of a calendar with 1893 printed at the top. "Oh, God," she moaned. "Tell me your name isn't Lila Gallagher Hardesty."
The woman picked up a damp cloth that had fallen onto Joanna's lap and laid her cool palm on Joanna's forehead. “Of course it is, dear. Are you feeling better?"
"Yes . . . no! I don't know."
"You fainted, you know." Lila Gallagher Hardesty busied herself by rearranging items on an already perfectly organized bureau. "Now, I don't want you to worry about a thing. I know you need this job and you're going to keep it. You'll get your strength back after a few good meals and a little rest. There's plenty of time to see to the chores that need doin'." She smiled again over her shoulder. "Land sakes. It's not as if I really want to move anyway."
Joanna didn't understand any of it. But she liked this woman. She had since she had first seen her in the album. The album! The only concrete link with reality Joanna had. "Mrs. Hardesty . . ."
"Call me Lila. Everyone does."
"Lila. Do you know where my carry-on bag is?"
"Your what, dear?"
Carry-on. No, that description wouldn't work. "My bag, my suitcase . . . thingy."
"It's right here." Lila retrieved the bag from a chair under the window and set it on the bed.
Fighting a mounting panic that nothing would ever be as it should again, Joanna unbuckled the strap and opened the bag. Relief flooded her when her fingers wrapped around the solid, tissue-wrapped shape inside. She wasn't totally nuts. The album was there. She pulled it out, removed the paper and held it out to Lila. "Is this yours?"
Lila Hardesty's eyes grew wide with delight and then brimmed with tears. She took the album and clutched it to her chest. "Oh, my dear, sweet child. Where did you find this?"
How could she explain what she didn't understand herself? She found it at a garage sale? What was a garage to Lila Hardesty? "I found it in Florida," she finally said.
"Florida? One of Joshua's children went to live in Jacksonville a few months back," she said. "I always suspected he had the album. I expect he misplaced it." She ran her hands over the cover and opened the album to the first page. "My, it's a bit worse for the wear after its travels. Must have been in a musty old place."
That's because it's a hundred years older than when you last saw it!
"Still, Jo, you don't know what it means to have it back, in any condition."
Tears of gratitude glistened in Lila's eyes, and for a moment Joanna stopped thinking of her own problems and the mysterious circumstances that had brought the woman and the album back together. Her argument with Steve, the price of the plane ticket, the near ruination of her Reeboks .. . even this incredible, logic-defying journey into some sort of space-time continuum. It was all worth it, well almost, to see the gratitude on Lila Hardesty's face. Joanna smiled back at the woman, letting herself enjoy Lila's happiness. She would figure her own life out soon enough . . . somehow.
Heavy-booted footsteps sounded on the kitchen floor. A few seconds later, Clayton Hardesty, the real, pig-headed, insensitive Clayton Hardesty, stuck his gorgeous head in the bedroom. "So, you're back among the living," he said.
She thought about his observation and the fact that she probably should forgive him for that boy's clothes remark he had made earlier. "I'm not sure. Hope I didn't disappoint you."
Was that an actual smile on his granite face?
Lila thrust the album at him. "Look, Clayton. Look what Jo's brought us. Said she found it in Florida where Busby went to live."
Clayton spared a mere glance at the album, apparently preferring to keep a stern glare on the woman who had delivered it. Could those cold, suspicious eyes looking at her now be the same ones she had found warm and gentle when she viewed them in the album? But at least now she knew the answer to one question. They were the most unforgettable deep blue she had ever seen.
"You know Busby, Jo?" he asked.
"Well, not exactly. I sort of met somebody who might have known Busby, or someone from his family... at some time or other." For heaven's sake. She was babbling.
"Doesn't matter, I guess." He handed the book back to his grandmother. The ice in his blue eyes melted just slightly. "This was real nice of you. You've made Gran's day."
"It was nothing," Joanna said, rolling her eyes at the understatement.
"You know, young lady, you should take better care of yourself, especially if you're still serious about staying on here for a few days."
If he only knew. It was a little hard to be serious about anything right now. But as far as taking care of herself, a low-fat diet, daily exercise, moderation ... it was all part of her regimen, not that Clayton Hardesty would understand all of that. "I'll try to do better when I get home, kind sir."
Home. The word slammed into her conscious thought and brought back all reminders of her predicament. The airport. The Jeep Cherokee. If Clayton Hardesty even considered paying her back for bringing the album, he was going to get his chance. She needed to know that the outside world still existed beyond this mountain. That somewhere it was 1999. "Clayton, I need your help. I have to find a phone."
"A telephone?" She nodded. "We don't have one here. But I think there's one at Jessup's." He looked to Lila for confirmation.
"My, yes, Jessup's has one on the wall behind the penny candy counter. It's just wonderful. A beautiful oak box polished to a gleam. The most delightful little ring when you turn the handle."
"But that's in Pinkney Falls," Joanna said. "I need to get to a phone tonight."
"Oh, no, dear. You're going to rest tonight and get your strength back."
Clayton cleared his throat and shifted his long legs to a wide, no-nonsense stance. "So just maybe you can get to a few of those boxes in the attic tomorrow. The auction's only days away."
They were back to that subject again. Joanna was about to tell him she had no idea what he was talking about, when it suddenly occurred to her that she knew exactly where a telephone was . . . and an automobile to take her away from this craziness. She threw back the quilt and bounded out of bed. "I've got to go back to the ravine ... right now!"
"You came across that ravine?" Lila asked. "But the bridge is out. Happens all the time in May when the rains come."
"I made it," Joanna stated, shuddering at the memory of the cold, damp mist that had enveloped her. "And I've got to go back. I left something there that I must have."
Lila and Clayton regarded each other with worried expressions. "Well, you're not going back there until I get a good meal in you," Lila said emphatically.
Joanna was about to argue when Clayton put his hand up to stop her. "Tell you what You have supper like Gran says, and then if you still want to go back to the ravine, we'll have enough daylight to do it. I'll take you there myself."
"I don't need a nanny."
"And I don't need a stubborn woman swooning on the kitchen floor and taking up my time."
She acquiesced with a glare and a frown. Apparently that was the best deal she was going to get.
******************
Supper on the apple green dining table consisted of stew made with lots of homegrown vegetables and tender chunks of beef, all in a thick, rich gravy. Along with it were hot, buttery biscuits, tall glasses of cold milk, and a cherry pie for dessert, the kind with the ruffled, crisscrossed crust on the top. Joanna didn't consume that many fat grams in a whole week, much less in one meal. But she ate every bite on her plate for two reasons. It was delicious, and every forkful that reached her mouth made Lila Hardesty smile.
When she was finished, Joanna picked up her plate and stacked Clayton's and Lila's on top. Heading for the kitchen, she said, "I'll clean up the dishes, and then I'm going to the ravine."
"Don't bother about the mess," Lila said. "I'll tend to it."
Joanna caught the none-too-subtle glance Clayton shot her way, the one intended to remind her of her manners and her apparent status as hired help. "No, really, Lila," she said. "You cooked. It's only fair."
"I don't want you to lose the daylight. I'll wash them and stack them on the cupboard. You can dry and put away when you get back."
Joanna raised both eyebrows at Clayton as if to ask, "Is that okay with you, milord?" He nodded once, and she carried the plates into the kitchen. Funny, but it did prick her conscience to know that she would never be back to actually carry out her end of the bargain.
Rolling up her soiled blue jeans and socks, Joanna stuffed them into her bag. She cleaned her Reeboks and herself as best she could and put on her other set of clothes, a navy twill mid-calf skirt and a red and navy jersey knit top. Not very appropriate for climbing back into the gully, but maybe Clayton Hardesty would find her a bit more feminine. "As if you care what he thinks," she said to her reflection in the three-way mirror over the bureau. Oddly, she did care.
With her carry-on securely strapped to her back, Joanna went to the parlor where Lila and Clayton waited. Lila regarded her with what could only be interpreted as a hurt expression. "You know you can trust us, don't you, Jo?"
"Of course. Why do you ask?"
"Your valise. You don't need to take it with you. No one will go through your things."
How could Joanna tell her that in a matter of minutes, she would be starting the engine of a 1999 Cherokee and heading down the mountainside to catch a plane in Atlanta? "It's not that I don't trust you, Lila, because I do. I guess I've just gotten used to carrying this thing around with me. Besides, it's not heavy. There's not much in it."
Lila cast a pitying glance at her grandson, who only shrugged. "Let's go, then," he said.
She lingered long enough to commit Lila Hardesty's parlor to her memory. My mother would have loved the things in this room, she decided. The simple lines of the furniture, cheerful fabrics and warm wood tones. All the little touches added over the years. She recalled a box of her mother's treasures packed away in her closet in Fort Lauderdale.
Joanna hadn't opened that box since Evelyn Archer's funeral. It was full of things like these, knickknacks and memories she had believed would only open old wounds if she displayed them in her own house. Lila Hardesty's parlor was like that box. It was made up of memories, yet these were happy somehow, like an enduring painting of generations past meant to hang over a crackling fireplace.
Joanna started out the screen door but stopped and turned back to Lila. "It's been so nice meeting you," she said. "I'll always remember how kind you were to me." She resisted an almost overwhelming urge to wrap Lila Hardesty in a hug. But she couldn't do that. Her words were confusing enough. Joanna ran her hand over the silken patina of the album, now resting on the book stand, and then she went out the door into a cool country evening.
She had seen the moon rising on the Atlantic Ocean countless times. She had witnessed sunsets in Key West and white sails against a darkening sky. In spite of those wondrous delights of nature, she knew she would never forget twilight in the north Georgia mountains.
The last of the sunlight filtered through the trees casting gold and amber shadows on the gravel path. Green leaves showed their darker, mysterious underbellies when the evening breeze tumbled them into graceful somersaults. Creatures scurried in the underbrush, some settling in for the night, some preparing for the special energy of the darkness.
And Clayton knew them all. He was part of the majestic tableau of the mountains. Joanna was the alien. When she jumped at the crackle of leaves by her feet, Clayton said, chipmunk, or garter snake, or some other ground-hugging creature of the night, and convinced her of its lack of malice toward humans. When something squawked or crooned in the tallest branches of the oak trees, he said, crow, or owl, or cicada.
They didn't talk beyond this elemental lesson of life on Divinity Mountain, but Joanna discovered that a walk with Clayton could be companionable and peaceful. Perhaps he wasn't so far removed from the man in the album after all. Joanna even became sad, as she had the day before, thinking that he might live out his days with no photograph opposite his in Lila's family record.
Sounds of men's voices reached them as they rounded the curve to the ravine. When Clayton saw the three men he shouted a greeting. "Hello, Hob, Luther, Wayne."
"Howdy, Doc," one of them said as he threw a long plank of wood into a cart harnessed to a pony.
"I see we've got us a new bridge."
"We got here as soon as we could. Just heard about the washout yesterday."
Joanna marveled at the results of the men's labors. A contraption of wood boards and elbow braces now straddled the ravine where just hours before there had been only pilings and air. It took modern man months to build a bridge of concrete and steel, and yet in a single afternoon, these three men had put together a reasonably stable-looking link from one side of the ravine to the other. Granted, it wouldn't hold anything as heavy as an automobile, but its eight feet of width and sturdy guard rails would provide safe passage for a man or a horse.
"It looks good, Hob," Clayton said. "I heard the county is going to commission a permanent bridge any time now."
"And put us out of business every May?" one of the others lamented good-naturedly. "I hope not."
Joanna was delighted. Now she didn't have to risk life and limb by climbing down the ravine in the gathering dusk. Soon she would be sitting behind the wheel of her comfy little Cherokee and on her way to the airport.
The Cherokee! Hadn't these men noticed it while they were building the bridge? Apparently not, or they surely would have commented on an oddity they had never seen before. Joanna stood at the edge of the bridge and squinted through the twilight shadows. Funny, she still didn't see any sign of it herself. The camouflage of trees was extremely effective.
Clayton interrupted her thoughts. "Do you see what we came for?" he asked.
"No, but it's on the other side."
"Let's go have a look, then."
She stalled for several minutes until the three men finished loading the pony cart and said their farewells. When they had disappeared up the mountain, Joanna prepared herself to face Clayton's disbelief, perhaps even ridicule. How could she ever explain the existence of an automobile?
They crossed the bridge together, and Joanna led the way to the clump of trees. "Clayton, what you're about to see is going to seem awfully strange. And it is. In fact, this whole day has been remarkable and miraculous and completely unbelievable. I don't understand it myself."
They were close enough now that she should be able to see something of the vehicle, and still there was no sign of it. The lengthening shadows were certainly playing tricks on her eyes. "I think the best thing for you to do is forget what you're going to see," she continued. "There's certainly no way to explain it, so you'll have to accept it as one of life's unsolved mysteries . .."
It wasn't there! An entire Jeep Cherokee had disappeared. Or maybe it was Joanna Archer who had disappeared. Maybe the Jeep existed, and she no longer did. She pinched her arm hard. It hurt, so she knew she at least existed on some level.
She tromped through the trees, scattering leaves with her feet. She frantically pushed aside low-hanging limbs and peered between the dark, spindly branches of oaks and maples. This couldn't be. Her heart rate accelerated until she had to stop and catch her breath. Her arms and legs felt numb, and her head whirled with dizziness.
Clayton grabbed her arm. "You're not going to pass out again, are you?"
She leaned against him, appreciating his solid support. "No, I don't think so. It's just that ... well, I can't find it!"
"Well, stop all that babble about mysteries and what not, and tell me what we're looking for so I can help."
"You can't help," she cried. "No one can. It's simply not here. And it was big. We'd see it easily, but it's gone!" Feeling steadier, she stepped away from Clayton and pulled the keys to the Cherokee out of her pocket. "No one could have stolen it. I have these."
He jangled the keys dangling from her fingers. "They're odd ... awfully small. What do they fit? A trunk or something?"
"No. Clayton, you wouldn't understand. Trust me." She ran back to the ravine and peered into the darkness at the bottom. Maybe there was a logical explanation. Perhaps the Jeep had somehow rolled over the embankment. No, the men would have seen it.
A feeling of utter hopelessness overtook her, andJoanna could no longer hold back a torrent of tears. "I'll never get home now," she sobbed.
Clayton walked up behind her, and she felt his big hands come to rest on her trembling shoulders. " It can'tbe as bad as all that, Jo," he said, his voice surprisingly comforting.
She turned toward him and looked into eyes the color of the night sky. "Oh, but it is," she said. "It's really that bad."
"Look, it's late and you're probably tired. Let's go back to the house so you can get some rest. We'll handle this problem, whatever it is, tomorrow. I'll see you get home, Jo. Whenever you want to go."
A small, hysterical giggle bubbled up from her throat, and she leaned her forehead against his chest His arms came around her, and he patted her back, a little clumsily, but it was nevertheless quite endearing. For a moment she could almost believe he could keep that promise.
He was right, at least for now. She had no choice but to go back across the bridge. Maybe she would think of something tomorrow. There was still a phone in Pinkney Falls. Was there a chance she could reach someone she knew in Fort Lauderdale? The phone was a device common to both time periods, so it just might work. She couldn't call Steve. He would be out on the ocean on his way to Treasure Cay. Oh, Steve. He was going to be really angry about this.
Joanna crossed over the ravine with Clayton. As they started up the gravel path, she suddenly remembered something she had heard one of the men say. "Clayton, did that man call you 'Doc,' back there?" she asked.
"Yep."
"You're a doctor?"
"A horse doctor," he said.
"You mean a veterinarian."
His features had almost become one with the shadows, but she could see a wide grin spread slowly across his face. "That's right," he said with a sense of wonder in his voice. "I'm a veterinarian."
CHAPTER FOUR
With an unexpected sense of delight, Joanna Archer heard a rooster crow for the first time in her life. It did indeed sound like the cock-a-doodle-do from a child's book of farm animals. She looked through the open window of her bedroom to see a gray sky with a hint of gold at the top of the eastern slope of Divinity Mountain. Joanna never rose at this ungodly hour of the morning, but there was something satisfying about discovering that the rooster did. Mother Nature does have an unalterable rule book, she thought... about some things.
She snuggled deeper into the soft down of her mattress as the Hardesty house stirred like a living thing. Sounds that Joanna already recognized echoed through the old home. Floorboards creaked under soft footsteps. Door hinges squeaked as inhabitants left one room to enter another. The iron door on Lila's stove clinked when she opened it to fill the wood box with shavings. The stairs groaned under human weight. That had to be Clayton descending to the first floor.
Clayton Hardesty—the flesh-and-blood man behind the photograph. The one whose gruff manner had softened for a brief moment when he made Joanna a promise he didn't know he couldn't keep. His muscular arms and capable hands seemed more at home swinging an ax than comforting a woman. Yet for the time those arms had been around her at the ravine, Joanna had felt surprisingly safe, less frightened by the mysterious circumstances that had propelled her into a world that by all sound reasoning didn't exist any longer.
A slow, steady warmth diffused through Joanna's body. It had nothing to do with the quilt that kept her skin warm. This was a slow-building heat that started somewhere deep inside her and spread even to her fingers and toes. And she had never felt anything quite like it before.
The events of the preceding day should have plagued her dreams. Yet she had slept as soundly as she could ever remember. Some force^ beyond the realm of logic had thrust her into an unfamiliar environment and time, and yet she wasn't afraid. Curious, yes. Determined to find her way back, certainly. But not frightened. Joanna knew she didn't belong here, so she had to go home; and when she did, some part of her would be sad to leave this house that didn't permit or acknowledge fear. Perhaps that small part of her might even remain behind.
Giving in to the persistent cry of the rooster which demanded she live in its present, Joanna got up and put on the worn woolen robe Lila had left on her bed the night before. Lila told her it had belonged to her husband. Joanna raised a long, belled sleeve to her nose. The fabric smelled faintly of wood smoke, but not unpleasant. It reminded her of leaves burning in the fall, a practice that was now illegal most everywhere. Joanna smiled as she lowered her arm. Now. What did that mean anymore? Truly it wasn't illegal to burn leaves now.
She padded down a short hallway to the lavatory, one of the latest additions to the home. It was extremely functional with its chain-operated water closet. The oak seat was shiny, evidence that Lila polished everything. A porcelain sink sat on a single white pedestal. It had two spigots, one on the right for cold and one on the left for hot. Joanna kept alternating her hands between the two as she washed.
She went back to her room and put on the same clothes she had worn to the ravine the night before, the same ones she would wear into Pinkney Falls, the closest Mecca of civilization, the place where Joanna would hopefully find the means to go home. The place that had a telephone!
By the time she reached the kitchen, breakfast foods were already sizzling and simmering on the stove. Joanna sensed that meals were important in the Hardesty house and as much a part of the routine of the homestead as chores, talks about the weather, and special moments for doing nothing at all. Food fueled the body, and the body nurtured life on the mountain.
Lila stood at the stove. She looked over her shoulder and smiled. "Good morning, Jo."
"What can I do to help?" Joanna asked.
Lila nodded toward a bowl of eggs. "You can scramble those for me."
Joanna counted six large eggs, more than she ate in a whole month. She thought of Clayton, and refrained from asking if Lila wanted her to scramble all of them. Of course she did. After successfully cracking the first one open, Joanna poured the contents into the bowl, then spent the next minute picking out pieces of shell. She wasn't much of a cook.
"Where's Clayton?" she asked when the last of the eggs was safely swimming around in a shell-free environment.
"He'll be in soon. He went out to milk Dawn. That's our dairy cow. We call her that because she was born just at sunrise."
"Ah." Joanna pressed her lips together to hide a grin. She took a whisk from a crockery jug and began twirling it in the eggs. After a minute she announced she was done.
Lila inspected the bowl. "Have you ever scrambled eggs before, Jo?"
"Well, no. Usually I just micro ... What I mean is, I don't eat many eggs. They're high in choles ... Well, no."
Lila took a bottle of milk and a small mason jar of cheese from the icebox. "Let me give you a hint. This is the way Clayton likes his eggs." She poured a small amount of milk into the bowl and sprinkled in grated yellow cheese. Then she tipped the bowl slightly and whisked. When Lila whisked, the mixture mixed. "Here he comes now. We'd best start these cooking."
Bacon, grits and scrambled eggs. Even taking small portions, Joanna was stuffed. How do these people keep from getting as fat as their cows, she wondered. She would have to walk into Pinkney Falls to undo the damage of Lila's cooking. Then it occurred to her ... she might really have to walk into Pinkney Falls!
"Well, I'm ready to go," she announced to Clayton when the dishes had been cleared.
"Good for you," he said. "I'll pull the stairs down and we'll go on up to the attic. Any of the heavier things I'll carry down for you, but I think you can manage the smaller cartons."
"What? I meant I'm ready to go to Pinkney Falls."
Tiny wrinkles creased the corners of his eyes, but he didn't actually smile. "We'll go directly, after we get some work done first."
She must have looked witless with her mouth gaping open and no words coming out, but what was there to say? The road to Pinkney Falls was apparently paved with boxes from the attic.
******************
By noon Joanna knew how people survived on country cooking without getting fat. She had been up and down those narrow stairs dozens of times carting Hardesty paraphernalia to the parlor and the porch. These people saved everything!
When every inch of available floor space was covered with household goods and cartons, Joanna felt as though she had stepped into an antique collector's paradise. The Hardestys owned bits and pieces that ranged from common graniteware to European china. Joanna recognized fine examples of early Fostoria glass and Appalachian art glass. There were old tins and shaker boxes, reed baskets and crockery larder jugs.
And the textiles .. . hand-dyed and exquisitely stitched quilts and table linens were stored in steamers and camelback trunks. The wicker baby carriage Clayton had carried down was filled with porcelain dolls, wooden pull toys and cast-iron soldiers still holding their paint-chipped muskets.
Lila came to stand beside her and shook her head in quiet frustration. "The amount of stuff a person accumulates over the years," she said. "We've got our work cut out for us, Jo, cleaning it all."
Despite the fact that neither Lila nor Clayton seemed to realize that she was not there to work in the first place, Joanna's curiosity got the best of her. She had gone this far, as her aching back testified. Why not find out the purpose behind her dubious employment. "Why are we doing this, Lila?"
"Because Clayton says it'll fetch higher prices if it's all spit and polished. Can't argue, I guess."
The auction! Joanna remembered hearing references to it the day before. Both Clayton and Lila had spoken of an auction which was to take place at the end of the week. "You're really going to sell all these things?"
"Can't keep it all in a three-room apartment in Asheville."
"You're moving?"
Lila nodded. "Clayton says it's time to leave this place. He says it's for the best. The auctioneer thinks the house might fetch as much as four thousand." She turned and walked toward the kitchen. "Guess Sunday will tell the tale on that one."
Joanna followed her through the dining room, knowing she was about to jump into something that was none of her business. But at this moment, she didn't care. "Lila," she began, "I remember you said something to me yesterday ... I can't recall your exact words, but you indicated you didn't want to move. Is that true?"
Lila stopped at the kitchen scrub table and rearranged the peaches in their bowl. She didn't look at Joanna as she answered. "I was born in this house, Jo. It'd suit me fine to the here, but Clayton won't hear of it."
Die here? Joanna placed her hand around Lila's wrist. "You're not sick?"
Lila looked into Joanna's eyes and waved her fingers in a sign of dismissal. "Land sakes, no, not if you don't count heartsick. I'm as healthy as that ol' mule in the barn. Clayton says we're both likely to go on forever."
"Then why is Clayton insisting you sell everything and move?"
"It's for my own good, he says. Clayton fusses a lot, but he means well." She moved away from the table, putting an end to their conversation with a last barely audible remark. "And he's most often right."
Outrage boiled inside of Joanna. If the target of her anger had been within throwing distance, she might have picked up one of Lila's treasures and hurled it at him. She returned to the parlor wondering how Clayton could be so heartless as to put his own grandmother out of her home. How could he insist she sell her precious memories over the auction block?
Her first impression of him had been the right one after all. He was insensitive; only now she could add cold and materialistic as well. She stomped her foot on the maple floor causing splatterware tops to clatter against kettles and the gears of wind-up toys to hiss in agreement with the injustice of it all.
"Jo! Can you come out to the kitchen a minute?"
It was him. Balling her hands into tight fists, she strode back through the dining room muttering warnings to herself, anything to keep from attacking him with the whisk she had used to scramble his stupid eggs. "It's not your concern, Joanna," she argued reasonably but not successfully. "You're leaving, remember? You never should have been here in the first place."
The sight that greeted her when she walked into the kitchen took the starch out of her anger and nearly replaced it with a sputtering of laughter. There was Clayton Hardesty, his sea blue eyes flashing, and his golden brown hair glinting in sunlight streaming through the kitchen window, and he had been transformed from Paul Bunyan to Little Red Riding Hood.
He wore a clean red-and-black flannel shirt with black suspenders attached to fresh, characteristically baggy denims. In his two hands poised at his waist was a wicker basket with a gingham-checked cloth hanging over the sides.
Joanna choked back her anger and stared at him. "Are we taking cookies away from Grandma's?" she said.
He cleared his throat and immediately set the basket on the table. "Very funny. But since you asked, no. We're going to Pinkney Falls."
"You're a man of your word, Clayton Hardesty. As you said yourself once, 'If you make a commitment, you ought to keep it.' "
He regarded her suspiciously, as if he wasn't sure if she was poking fun. "That's right, I did. I'll get the horse hitched to the buggy. You pack us a lunch and get ready."
"Oh, I am ready."
"No, you're not. Gran says you can't go into town dressed like that."
"Like what?"
"That." His gaze dropped to her bare feet and climbed slowly upward. "Half your legs are showing."
"Sheesh!" She looked at the ceiling and counted to ten. “For Pete's sake, Clayton." She returned her gaze to his determined face and pointed to Midnight, who was curled next to the icebox in a disguise of peaceful coexistence with the universe. "There's just not a whole lot I can do about this ‘leg’ problem," she said, "thanks to your biting best friend over there who ruined my jeans."
"Gran put some clothes on your bed you can wear."
"I don't want to wear anyone else's clothes."
"You will if you want to go to town." The matter concluded, Clayton headed for the door. "And don't forget to make lunch."
Lila was waiting for her when Joanna went to her bedroom. She gave Joanna a sheepish little grin. "I heard what he said to you, Jo. I told him to be subtle about it."
"Ha! He doesn't know the meaning of subtle. He only knows full steam ahead."
Lila tsked sympathetically. "I hope he didn't embarrass you. I know you must feel bad about the way your own clothes fit you. They must've belonged to somebody a lot shorter."
"Don't worry, Lila. Embarrassment is the last thing I feel at the moment."
Lila busied herself with a selection of garments on the bed. "Still, I don't want you to fret about this. I've found all these things that belonged to Lindy, Clay's cousin. She was a mite broader than you, but we can sash the dresses in at the waist. They may not be the latest fashion, but they don't look as second-hand as that skirt you're wearing now."
Lila held up one dress in front of Joanna and eyeballed it for size. "You can hold your head high in town in this one, and nobody'll be the wiser that it wasn't made just for you."
Joanna looked at the pale yellow organdy dress with its apron front and capped sleeves. She compared it to her own Liz Claiborne navy skirt she had bought in Macy's two weeks before, and burst out in a fit of giggles. It didn't matter whether Lila truly pitied Joanna for her lack of appropriate wardrobe or if she merely wanted to change Joanna's "bargain basement" image for this crucial visit to the Hardestys' center of culture. Her generosity tickled Joanna and touched her heart
"I knew you'd like this one," Lila said, draping the yellow dress over the footboard of the bed.
"I love it," Joanna said. "I'd be honored to wear it to town."
"Then you're not mad at Clayton?"
Joanna arched her eyebrows and frowned. "I wouldn't go that far."
"Don't be cross with him, Jo. He changed when his wife died. It made him act like a bear with people. But inside he's soft as pudding."
Lila's words sliced into Joanna's mind and scattered all thoughts of the trip to town and Lindy's yellow dress. "His wife died?"
"Right here on the mountain more than nine years ago. They said her appendix burst Clayton was off to college finishing up his animal doctor classes, so we were here by ourselves, me and my husband and Emily.
"She complained of a stomachache, so I made her lie down. When it kept getting worse, Henry and me took her ' in the buckboard to Pinkney Falls. But when we got there, the doctor was out delivering a baby. He didn't come back for hours, and when he did, it was too late. He said the poison had got through her system and there was no way to save her."
Joanna pictured Emily Hardesty's struggle to stay alive, and her husband's devastation when he learned she had died. An all too familiar heaviness settled in Joanna's heart. Her imagined vision of Emily Hardesty mingled with the face of Evelyn Archer until the two women became one. "You never get over the loss of a loved one," she said softly.
"No, especially when God calls a life before we believe it's time. It changed Clayton. For a time he turned away from all of us and took to staying with the animals. He's got a gift for healing those critters, but the rest of him is closed up tighter than winter's shutters."
Lila took a pair of ivory satin slippers from the box of Lindy's clothes and handed them to Joanna. "These are more for dancing and such, but you can wear them to town. I don't think it'll rain today. You go on and get ready. I'll see that Clayton's basket is full."
Joanna bathed in the iron claw-foot tub that took up most of the lavatory. She heeded Lila's warning that the gas heater only accommodated a few gallons of hot water, but it was enough to wash her hair and allow herself a few inches of water to soak in. Back in her room, she took her travel-sized hair dryer out of her carry-on, immediately recognized her mistake, and used a towel to fluff her hair       until it was only slightly damp.  
She put on Lindy's organdy dress and satin slippers and pinned her hair into a knot on top of her head with several tortoiseshell combs on the bureau. The dress, once she had sashed it at the waist, fit surprisingly well. The hem grazed the tops of Lindy's slippers, while the bodice dipped low enough to threaten immodesty. To satisfy Victorian convention, however, a loosely woven piece of lace had been sewn to the bodice and reached all the way toJoanna's throat. But it did little to hide her cleavage. Joanna met her reflection in the mirror with a grin of amusement. "It looks like the only thing the people of Pinkney Falls care about is that your ankles are covered!"
"Come on, Jo!" Clayton hollered from the kitchen. "I didn't plan on taking the whole afternoon to get you to a telephone!"
Joanna gave her hair a last pat and twisted the strands at her nape and cheeks into spirals. She should have felt like a teenager attending the Pinkney Falls High School prom, class of '88, but that wasn't the image that flashed at her from the looking glass. She had been transformed from Liz Claiborne to Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, but the result was unexpectedly feminine and even a little bit sexy. Would the bellowing tower of sinew and muscle in the kitchen think so, too, she wondered.
Lila beamed with a sense of accomplishment when Joanna came into the kitchen. "I knew that dress would become you," she said. "Look at Jo, Clayton. Isn't she as pretty as a picture?"
He stood with the back door propped open, the basket of food in his hand. "You know more about pictures than I do, Gran," he said gruffly, but his eyes told a different story. His inspection of Joanna's appearance had been a slow, intense journey from the top of her head to her shiny shoes. A slight twitching of his jaw muscles indicated that his brain had at least registered a difference, perhaps even a pleasing one.
Her confidence was short-lived, however, when she faced the conveyance that was to take them into town. It was a small, open, two-seater buggy. Standing between two long wooden poles attached to the buggy was a huge horse. Joanna had seen horses, of course, sleek ones draped with silks in the paddock at Calder Race Track. But this horse was a monolith of rippling muscle and strained patience, and it seemed to be waiting for her to do something stupid.
"Get in," Clayton ordered.
And how exactly did one do that with any degree of grace? Joanna sighed with relief when she spotted the small step at the side of the buggy. Naturally, Mr. Horse, whose real name was probably "Morning Star" or "Moonbeam" or "Midday," chose just the moment Joanna's foot hit the rubber that on the step to skitter about in taunting protest. Joanna jumped back.
Clayton snorted with impolite amusement, mimicking his four-legged companion. He placed one hand on the horse's rump, and the animal quieted. Then his other hand gripped Joanna's elbow, and he boosted her into the buggy.
She plopped down on the seat and glowered at him. "I'd like to see you handle the stick shift on a four-wheel-drive Jeep," she said.
"Probably could," he responded, never admitting he hadn't the slightest idea what she was talking about.
Whenever she had thought about horses and buggies, which wasn't often, Joanna had always pictured moonlit carriage rides through Central Park. Those foolish romantic notions were soon squashed by a jostling, careening ride around the curves and ruts of Divinity Mountain.
Joanna admired the two creatures who handled the rugged road with inbred confidence. The horse, whose name actually was Buckeye since she was born in Ohio, maneuvered the road like a veteran, while Clayton gripped the reins in one hand and stuffed sausage and cheese into his mouth with the other.
When Joanna clutched her stomach and refused even a bite of Lila's lunch, Clayton regarded her with a mixture of confusion and concern. "Not used to these winding trails, are you, Jo?"
A particularly deep rut in the road swallowed half the right wheel of the buggy and sent Joanna bouncing several inches off the seat. Instinctively she grabbed on to Clayton's arm and dug her fingers in for dear life.
A sudden clenching of corded muscles under soft flannel made her reluctant to remove her hand even when the buggy settled back into an easier ride. There was something secure and powerfully male about the controlled strength under her fingertips. When Clayton shifted his gaze from the road to her hand, she felt a flush creep up her chest to her neck. She eased the tension from her fingers and brought her hand to her lap. "I'm not used to a lot of things lately," she said.
One side of his mouth lifted in a crooked grin. "It's just this bad in the spring," he said. "Winter snows play havoc with our roads. Soon as the county puts in more fill, it won't be so bad."
He returned his eyes to the road, and she sat back against the seat and studied his profile. Pronounced cheekbones framed a slightly crooked nose that hinted of an old break from his youth. Strong muscles worked along his jaw whenever he clenched his teeth. Eyebrows darker than his light hair knitted in concentration when the buggy hit the next unlevel stretch of Georgia mountain.
Clayton Hardesty, while not perfect in an Adonis sort of way, was nevertheless handsome by anyone's standards. How had he managed to avoid the tender traps of Divinity Mountain girls who must have tried to catch his fancy? Was he as hardened inside as were the rugged features of his face? As hardened as his own grandmother described him? For some reason Joanna had to know.
"Why are you doing it, Clayton?" she asked. "Why are you selling Lila's home?"
He set his lips in a firm, straight line, working those jaw muscles clear to his hairline. "Because it's time," he said.
"She doesn't want to go, you know. Lila wants to stay in that house."
He tightened his grip on the reins while dead silence hung in the air.
Joanna finally broke it. "Look, you don't have to explain anything to me," she said. "You're probably thinking that I have no right to pry into family business. I'm just the . . . hired help. I guess that's true, but anyway, I want to know."
He rubbed the back of his neck, easing the tension. "All right, then, I'll tell you. Lila doesn't have enough money to stay on. Things are constantly breaking down in that old house. As soon as she fixes one problem, another crops up. It was different when my grandfather was alive. There was income from his crafts. Now there's nothing."
"Okay, so she can sell some of her things at the auction and raise enough money to live there awhile longer. Maybe her family could chip in—"
He stopped her with a raised hand. "Look, Jo, it's not just the money. What if something happened to her? What if she got sick? Who'd see to her? Who'd get her to the doctor?"
So that was it. Joanna suddenly understood. Old memories with the power to haunt. Old fears that never go away. "What about the others? You have cousins .. . couldn't one of them come back and stay?"
"They visit several times a year. But they've got their lives and families. We've talked this over, Jo, all of us. It's decided, and Gran knows why. She's moving to Asheville to be near me. I'm the one most able to care for her."
"Couldn't you stay here on the mountain? It's obvious you love it. Why can't you establish a practice in Pinkney Falls?"
"The town already has a veterinarian. There's not enough business for two. Besides, I've known Doc Merriweather for years. I wouldn't compete with him—I'm not that big a fool."
"Still, there must be some way ..."
He glanced at her, a sharp, fleeting flash of ice blue that conveyed a glacial warning. "Let it be, Jo."
Feeling the bite of his words, Joanna wisely dropped the subject. Clayton Hardesty wasn't a fool at all. But she would be if she pursued this conversation. At least his motives were born of love for his grandmother, not materialistic gain. She knew that now. Besides, she couldn't change things. She would be leaving the mountain, just as soon as she found out how to get home.
They rounded a gentle sloping curve, and the main street of Pinkney Falls came into view. It consisted of two rows of two-story brick buildings, each distinctive in design and decoration. It looked to be the sort of town where each structure had a cornerstone proudly proclaiming the year it was built. Joanna had been in towns like this in her travels, towns that had pride in heritage and tradition. Warm, comfortable towns, she decided.
Clayton shifted in the seat beside her and reached into the pocket of his denim pants. He took out three dollar bills and handed them to her. "You worked real hard this morning, Jo. I couldn't ask for more, and I hope you'll stay on the week. I'm giving you a whole day's pay in case there are things you need while we're here."
It was the closest she would ever come to getting an apology for his abruptness moments before, and she felt a surge of guilt knowing that if luck was with her, she would find a way to leave long before the week was up. She thought of the two hundred dollars she had taken from her jeans pocket and secreted in the apron of Lindy's organdy dress. Suddenly it didn't seem to be worth as much as the three dollars in her hand.
CHAPTER FIVE
When Joanna crossed the threshold of Jessup's Dry Goods Emporium, she felt as though she were once again on a field trip her seventh grade class had taken to a restored nineteenth century Pennsylvania town. Only this exhibit was real, or as real as anything had been the last two days of her life.
The store proprietor was a flesh-and-blood human, not a mechanized figure. His bib apron was gray, and his shirt was white, with a black elastic band around the sleeve. In this respect, he resembled the mannikin, but this man's smile was genuine, not painted pink lips framing pearlized plastic teeth. And there was a "Mrs. Proprietor" by his side, a plump, cheerful lady in a crisply ironed floral cotton dress.
"Howdy, Clay," the man said.
"How's Lila?" the woman asked.
Clayton walked over to the counter while Joanna looked around the store. Barrels and bins and painted tin boxes sat on the pine plank floor, leaving just enough room for customers to pass in the aisles. Bottles of all sizes and shapes lined the shelves, and they were filled with everything from sewing notions to hardware supplies. And sitting on top of a glossy walnut counter was a large red cast-iron scale ready to measure whatever was poured into its galvanized tray. Joanna had shopped in the largest and finest malls in South Florida, but at this moment, it was hard to imagine needing anything that wasn't right here in Jessup's Dry Goods.
"Come here, Jo," Clayton said.
She walked over to where he stood next to the aproned man, who had his elbow on top of a brass cash register.
Clayton's hand cupped her elbow. "Jo, this is Horace Jessup, and the lady down there is his wife, Millie."
The woman looked up and waved from a large table where she was measuring a bolt of cloth for a customer.
Clayton continued the introductions. "Horace, this is Jo Archer. She's staying with us for a few days to help Gran."
Horace Jessup smiled. "Nice to meet you, Miss Archer. And say, Clay, that reminds me. I told you yesterday morning that some gal had responded to your note on the bulletin board. Well, she never showed up to get directions to your place. But it looks like you don't need her after all ... what with Miss Archer filling in."
Joanna flashed Clayton her boldest "told you so" look. Maybe now he would believe she had come to his house with only the album as her motive. But Clayton only grinned at her and said, "Yeah, Jo's been a big help."
"So where you from, Miss Archer?" Horace asked.
"Florida."
"Jacksonville?"
"No."
"St. Augustine, the panhandle?"
"Much farther south."
"Gee, I didn't think there were many folks much past Lake City or so. Guess there is, though, if you're living proof."
She smiled. "Actually there are quite a few of us pioneers."
"That's why I brought Jo here,'' Clayton said. "She wants to use the telephone to try and call some of her people."
"Oh, well, that's Millie's job," Jessup said proudly. "She's the one knows how to operate that thing."
He pointed to the oak case on the wall, and Joanna's heart danced a jig. It was a plain brown box, with a black horn on the front and a simple crank on the side, but she hoped it would be her link to the outside world.
For the sake of her tenuous sanity, Joanna held on to the belief that what had happened to her affected only a small pocket of the universe. Everyone outside of Divinity Mountain had to be driving automobiles, watching big screen TVs and chatting on the Internet. And through the use of an invention common to both cultures, the telephone, she would be able to reach someone in her world who could convince her that life was still as she remembered it little more than twenty-four hours ago!
Horace Jessup called to his wife. "Millie! If you're done with that cutting, Miss Archer here wants to make a telephone call."
Millie Jessup approached, and Joanna's hands began to perspire. Who would she call? Not Steve, of course. He was in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. She would call Gail. What would she say to her best friend? Gail, I'm in Georgia. It's eighteen ninety-three and I don't know how to get back. Gail would probably believe her. She wore crystals and read tarot cards.
"Where do you want to call, Miss Archer?" It was Millie Jessup's voice. She had the earpiece in one hand and the phone crank in the other.
"Fort Lauderdale, Florida," Joanna said.
"Can't say I know of it. Is it by Jacksonville?"
"No."
"St. Augustine, then?"
No, no, it's Fort Lauderdale! Joanna wanted to shout, but then she remembered her history. Fort Lauderdale didn't even become a city until after the turn of the century. "No, Mrs. Jessup," she said calmly. "It's farther south."
"Oh, dear."
"What's wrong?"
"I can't call south of St. Augustine. Can't reach a relay operator past there. It takes about an hour to get the Atlanta operator, and then another two hours to connect with the relay in Savannah, and another hour or two to get Jacksonville." She patted the phone box affectionately. "This thing is a modern miracle really, but you have to have patience enough to wait until we get a call back from the Jacksonville operator.''
Oh, great! Joanna plopped her elbows on the counter and groaned. Obviously the Pinkney Falls telephone was not going to solve her problems. She should have known that whatever time warp she had fallen into couldn't be connected to 1999 by something as simple as Millie Jessup's modern miracle. "Thanks anyway," she said, "but I'll think of another way.''
"A note is always nice," Mrs. Jessup said, and then her face brightened. "I have an idea! Why don't I try to get through to the Jacksonville operator and ask her to hand deliver a message to this person you're trying to contact. Most folks are real helpful and wouldn't mind."
"That's okay," Joanna said. "I just remembered that the person I wanted to call wouldn't be there anyway."
Clayton stood beside her offering quiet support. "Sorry, Jo."
She was going to be brave about this. If the telephone didn't work, she would try something else. She shrugged her shoulders. "No problem. What's on that list Lila gave you? Let's get the things and go ho ... go back. I've still got a lot of work to do."
He pulled a paper out of his pocket. "She wants Chase and Sanborn Coffee, Pears' Soap and Beechams' Pills."
Mr. Jessup offered to help. "I'll get the coffee and soap, Miss Archer. The Beechams' are in the medicine cabinet."
Joanna started toward the pharmaceutical supplies, but Clayton caught her arm and whispered so only she could hear. "I'll go. You don't have to do this, Jo."
"Do what?"
"Try to pick out those pills." He looked truly disturbed. "I don't want you to embarrass yourself."
"Clayton, what are you talking about?"
"You might pick out the wrong thing. I know about your little problem, and it's okay with me."
He knows about my problem ? How could he? And what did picking up Lila's pills have to do with her voyage through a black hole of time? She stared up at him and shook her head. "Clayton, just exactly what are you talking about?"
He looked for a moment like he wouldn't answer, and then he finally croaked out, "For heaven's sake, Jo. I know you can't read."
"What?"
She had said the word so loudly, he actually jumped back a step. "It's okay. Gran told me. You don't have to pretend."
She had scrubbed and scoured half of the Hardestys' possessions and received three dollars for her labor. She had tortured everyjoint in her body in that death trap of a buggy. She had just found out she had no way of contacting anyone from her world. And yet... this man's ridiculous misconception . . . his ludicrous notion that she couldn't read, upset her more than all the other things put together!
She whirled away from Clayton, whose face mirrored his sympathetic concern. Without another word she stormed to the medicine cabinet. With one hand she yanked open the glass door. With the other, she grabbed a tin box of Beechams' Pills.
She marched back to Clayton, whose countenance was now a picture of bewildered shock, and held the box in front of them both. In a barely constrained whisper that did nothing to hide the indignation behind the point she was making, she read, "For bilious and nervous disorders, such as wind and pain in the stomach, sick headache, giddiness and drowsiness, cold chills, flushings of heat, scurvy blotches on the skin ..."
He pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes threateningly. "Okay, Jo, you can stop now."
"Oh, no, I can't," she shot back. "A few doses will work wonders upon the vital organs ..."
Clayton grabbed the tin out of her hand and headed to the cash register where Horace and Millie Jessup watched with open mouths. "Guess we've got everything, Horace," Clayton said, forcing a smile on his face.
The proprietor dropped their purchases into Lila's basket and handed it to Clayton, who retrieved Joanna and ushered her to the door.
On their way out, she said, "Clayton Hardesty, it's time I told you a few things. And when I do, you're going to be a hell of a lot more surprised than simply finding out I can read!"
******************
He climbed in the carriage after her and took the reins. She didn't say a word until they had left the town limits of Pinkney. Whatever she was going to tell him, she was sure thinking hard on it.
Finally she threaded her hands in her lap and turned toward him. "Clayton . . ." She drew a deep breath.
What in the world required all this preparation to say?
"Before I describe a set of circumstances that might very well cause you to question my sanity, I want you to understand a few things."
"Okay."
"First of all, you may not think I have many clothes, but I assure you, I'm not poor."
He kept his eyes on the road. "Okay."
"Secondly, I may not know how to cook, or tame a wild dog, or climb in a buggy ..."
". . . or read a calendar."
"Just listen, please. I may not know how to do a lot of things around here, but I'm not stupid. I'm quite intelligent in fact, which is what makes this all the more difficult to understand."
"Okay. I never thought you were stupid."
"And I may not eat enough to suit you and Lila, but I assure you, I am quite fit."
This last qualification had definitely gotten his attention, and he stared long and hard at her. He let a grin show his satisfaction with what he saw. "You'll get no argument from me on that one, either," he said.
Her cheeks turned just a little bit pink, and that very feminine reaction pleased Clayton down to his toes. He secretly wished they would hit one of those bumps in the road again so she would grab on to his arm. Maybe he was acting like a teenaged boy still wet behind the ears, but something truly amazing was happening to him. He was actually enjoying a buggy ride with a girl for the first time in a lot of years.
"Clayton, I wish you wouldn't look at me like that," she said. "This is difficult enough without ... well, without whatever it is you're thinking."
He swallowed a chuckle and the urge to keep looking at her and fastened his gaze on the road again. Slapping the reins on Buckeye's back, he said quite agreeably, "Yes, ma'am."
He sensed her straightening her spine and squaring her shoulders. "There's no better way to say this," she said, "than to just say it right out. Something extraordinarily bizarre happened to me yesterday. A paranormal experience that defies scientific evaluation. An anomaly of nature that disproves every fact and theory we've ever held to be true."
Was she going to babble on forever without saying anything? The heck with keeping his eyes off her. Clayton figured he would tease her into feeling comfortable, but when he turned his head, he looked into a face that shone with vivid green eyes above a perfect full mouth tugged down at the corners with worry. "For heaven's sake, Jo. Just come out with it!"
That broke the flood gates. "Yesterday morning I left Fort Lauderdale, Florida, on a seven-thirty-seven jet airliner and flew to Atlanta, Georgia. The year was nineteen ninety-nine. I drove a Jeep Cherokee to the ravine on Divinity Mountain. When I climbed down that ravine, it was still nineteen ninety-nine. But when I came up, it was eighteen ninety-three."
Clayton pulled so hard on the reins that Buckeye trotted right off the road into a clump of trees and reared up on her hind legs. He fought for control and calmed the confused horse while his own emotions raged out of control. After setting the brakes on the buggy, he took hold of Jo's shoulders and just stared at her since he couldn't come up with the right words to explain his feelings about her announcement.
She managed to reach into Lila's basket on the seat between them and take out the box of Beechams' Pills. Holding it up so he could see it, she said, "Feeling a bit bilious, are you, Doc? Perhaps even experiencing some cold chills?"
"Forget the damn pills, Jo. I didn't understand a lot of what you just said, but I did get the gist of it. All I have to say is, are you crazy talking like that?"
She didn't flinch from his unwavering glare. He had to give her credit for that. "I knew it," she said. "You don't believe me."
She made the statement as if it had been a commentary on the weather! / knew it. The sun is shining today. Well, what did she expect? "Jo, I'm having a little trouble even believing that you believe it."
"I lived it, Clayton. I know it happened. I'm not happy about it, and I certainly don't understand it, but by God, I came out of that ravine and somehow lost over a hundred years."
Clayton Hardesty was a man of science. He was educated in biological and anatomical truths. He made his living making theoretical diagnoses based on physical evidence. He didn't believe in time machines or space travel or journeys into the unknown. He didn't believe in nonsense. And yet he knew without a doubt that Jo Archer believed what she was telling him.
He studied his hands clenched between his knees. Maybe he was a little bit afraid that if he looked into those never-ending green eyes, he would become as lost as she was. "Tell me everything, Jo," he said. "Start at the beginning and maybe we can make some sense of this."
She began with something called a garage sale, his grandmother's album, and a strange dream. And from that point on, the story became truly outrageous.
******************
At least he was listening. In fact, she couldn't remember a time in her life when anyone had listened as attentively as Clayton was. But then again, tales of the bizarre usually perked up everyone's ears. She had reached the spot in her story where she was about to climb down the ravine. "Are you with me so far?" she asked.
"I'm with you," he said. "I've read a few things about horseless carriages and flying machines. Enough to have an idea what you're talking about."
"Yeah, well, this goes a little beyond what the Wright Brothers did at Kitty Hawk."
"Who?"
Get your dates straight, Joanna. Stay in his century. "Never mind. Anyway, I parked the . .. horseless carriage in that clump of trees where we looked last night."
"Then, why wasn't it there?" Clayton challenged. "It's not as tf Hob or Luther could have gotten in and started the engine."
“I know that. I mean I don't know that. I don't know the answer anyway. It was there when I stood at the edge of the ravine. Then I climbed down, and this cold, gray mist surrounded me ..."
The proverbial ton of bricks landed smack on her head. "That's it," she shouted. "I have to climb back down. It doesn't work when you walk across the bridge."
"What doesn't work?"
"The whole time thing." She wrapped both hands around his arm and shook him until it seemed as if his teeth would rattle. "That's the answer, Clayton. It has to be! I've got to climb back down there. Will you take me to the ravine right now?"
"Jo, I don't know. This whole story doesn't make any sense."
"Of course it doesn't! But you have to take me anyway."
He gave her a look that said he would go to the ravine just as soon as Divinity Mountain moved to Atlanta. Did he think she was an idiot? Well, probably. How was she going to break the barriers of his thick-headedness and get him to just consider the possibility that she was telling the truth? With facts, that's how! She would baffle him with facts.
"Clayton, who is president now?"
"Grover Cleveland, why?"
"Right. His second term. Want to know who the next president will be?" Without waiting for an answer she ran through in her mind the list of presidents she had been forced to memorize in fifth grade. "Arthur . . . Cleveland .. . Harrison. . . Cleveland again, McKinley! He's your next president."
"William McKinley? He's governor of Ohio."
"Yep, but he's the one. And in about eighty years our president will be a man who comes from a family of Georgia peanut farmers. And just a few miles from here, they're going to make dolls that will turn adult humans into crazed animals one Christmas in the future. They'll be called Cabbage Patch dolls, and everyone will have to have one. And Atlanta will host the ninety-six Olympics, and—"
"Hold on, Jo. You're making my head swim." He took hold of her hands which she had just noticed were providing a crazy accompaniment to her animated history lesson. He folded his long fingers around hers, and she took a deep breath, letting the warmth of his palms calm her. "I'll take you back to the bridge if that's where you want to go."
She nodded, and he held on to her for another minute longer, his thumbs rubbing the backs of her hands. Then he let her go, released the brake on the buggy and headed for the ravine.
CHAPTER SIX
He wouldn't let her go down alone, not without anything on her feet but those silly dancing shoes. He went down first and then helped her to follow. When they stood together on the dry, uneven basin of the ravine, he felt Jo's disappointment as surely as if it had been his own. There was no mist, no fog, not even the change of temperature she had told him about, except for when they walked under the bridge and out of the sun.
She paced back and forth, her arms wrapped around her chest to ward off tremors of uncertainty. "I can't believe this didn't work," she said. "I was so sure."
Of course, Clayton had known they wouldn't find anything after they had climbed down, but he didn't want to say that to Jo now, when she had discovered that discouraging fact for herself. He followed her with his gaze as she tramped over tree roots, and rocks, and he tried to make her feel a little better.
"Look, Jo, maybe it has to be a certain time of day. It's later now than it was yesterday when you were down here.''
She shook her head. "No, I don't think so."
"Well, maybe you've got to be wearing those old boy's clothes of yours. Maybe it won't work when you're looking all pretty and ladylike."
She stopped pacing. A little grin pulled at the corners of her mouth. "You can be sweet sometimes, Clayton, you know that? When you forget you're supposed to be grumpy."
"I try."
She walked again, but only a few feet. "That's it," she suddenly exclaimed, her eyes round with discovery. "It's you!"
"Me?"
"Of course. You can't be here." She rushed at him, turned him around and began pushing at his back. "Go on, climb out. I'll stay down by myself, and then maybe it'll work."
He planted his feet and refused. "That's just plain silly. How's the mist going to know there's more than one person down here?"
"Well, I don't know! Maybe it's something about your aura, or maybe you send out unfriendly ionic impulses or dysfunctional electrical charges. Maybe the mist just doesn't like you!"
There had to be a way to argue that point, but Clayton wasn't sure how. Anyway, he felt himself being pushed along toward the ravine wall, and before he had a chance to think about it, he was climbing up with Jo's hands hovering at his rump in case he resisted.
When he reached the top he stayed at the edge so he could keep an eye on her. She reminded him of a bareknuckle fighter. Her knees were slightly bent. Her arms were out in front of her. Her palms were up, and she was wiggling her fingers for all she was worth as if to say,'' Come get me, cowardly fog."
Clayton looked both directions up and down the gully. Nothing. Not so much as a leaf blew down the ravine to answer her challenge. After a few minutes she let her arms fall to her sides and stood as still as a statue. God he felt sorry for her. Jo Archer possessed the determination and guts to change the world, or at least her little part of it, but she was powerless against the tricks her mind was playing on her.
"Do you want me to go check one more time for that, what'd you call it, Jeep thing? Maybe we just missed it last night."  She raised her face to him and ran her hand through  the auburn hair that had long since fallen out of the bun she had put it in. "Why bother? We both know it's not there. I'm coming up."
He leaned over to give her a pull up as soon as their hands touched. Once she was on top, she tried to brush the dirt off Lindy's dress. "Look what I've done," she said. "Tell your cousin I'm sorry. I'll take the dress to the cleaners as soon ..." She stopped and looked at him, a strange sort of smile on her face. "Never mind. I shouldn't make promises I don't know if I can keep." 
"Lindy won't care," Clayton said. "She never looked half as good in that dress as you do."
She stopped fussing long enough to gift Clayton with a grin that seemed to come from deep inside her. It made him realize why he had been thinking of her all through his morning chores and why he hadn't been able to take his eyes off her all afternoon. Jo Archer was a fine-looking woman. Maybe there was something strange going on in her head, but it didn't affect his appreciation of her outward attributes.
"Why, Clayton Hardesty," she said. "You're positively going to turn my head with all this flattery."
He laughed and took her hand as naturally as if they had grown up together, children of the mountain. As they walked toward the buggy, he said, "Don't worry about it, Jo. Everything has a way of working out. This will, too." 
She climbed into the buggy with ease this time and looked over her shoulder at him. "Maybe so, but Clayton, let's not tell Lila about any of this just yet. I'd like for at least one of you Hardestys to believe I have all my ducks in a row."
He was beginning to accept that he wasn't going to understand the way she phrased a lot of things. So he just grinned and said, "You got ducks, Jo? You sure can pack a lot in that one little bag of yours."
******************
Jo found Clayton after the supper dishes were put away. He was in the barn that stood between the house and the upward slope of the mountain. It was the first time Joanna had been in the barn. It was the first time she had been in any barn. The closest thing to it she could think of was a covered bridge in western Pennsylvania she and her mother used to drive through. It was rather like the Hardesty barn with its exposed wooden roof beams and plank siding filled with knotholes.
It was dark outside, but a single lantern burned at the end of the barn's interior. It produced enough light for her to see the animals in their stalls—Dawn and Buckeye, the mule Lila had spoken of, and several chickens loose from the coop. And, too, she saw Clayton standing near me open rear door, his broad back straight, though his head was bent over an object on a wooden table. His hair, lying in soft waves to his collar, was burnished gold in the lamplight. Joanna suddenly discovered that she very much wanted to touch it.
The smells of the barn were rich and earthy, a mixture of nature's fertilizer, fresh hay and leather. Joanna moved across the dirt-packed floor. Her progress was silent, but the same was not true for Midnight's. The energetic mutt nipped at Joanna's heels as she headed farther into the barn.
Clayton set something on the table and turned around. He smiled when he saw her. "Looks like you've made a friend of Midnight."
It was true. That silly little dog seemed to follow her everywhere. "Don't kid yourself," Joanna said. "She only does this to torment me. She'd still like to see my toes in her food bowl." Joanna stopped a few feet from Clayton. Midnight stopped also, yawned and curled into a furry ball at her feet. "See, she's doing it now. Tormenting me by trying to make me look like a liar."
"She's a sneaky rascal, all right."
Joanna stepped up to the table and stood beside Clayton. "Do you mind some company?"
"Glad to have it. I was just going through some of my grandfather's things. The barn was his bailiwick. There are years of projects stored out here. Guess I'll have to go through them before Sunday."
"You said he was a craftsman, your grandfather?"
"Eventually. He started out in government. Before the war he served in the Georgia State House of Representatives."
Before the war. . . . How many times Joanna had heard that expression, but this was the first time she had heard it in.relation to the Civil War. "Was he a soldier?" she asked.
"No, he was too old, but he did hold an office in Jefferson Davis' administration in Richmond. He wasn't home a lot during those years. I was just a sprout, so I wasn't aware of much, but I sure remember when he came home after it was over. Gran decorated the whole place and put up a Christmas tree even though it was July. A short time later my grandfather was elected to the U.S. Senate. He was gone a lot then, too, but not as much."
There was affection in Clayton's voice for his Confederate grandfather. And admiration. "When did he have time to make his crafts?" she asked.
"Later, when he retired."
Clayton opened a trunk on the table and showed the contents to Joanna. It was filled with a handyman's treasure. Everything from basic hammers and saws to finishing tools. She noticed a shelf above the table. It was covered with bottles of paint and stain. "What did he make?"
Clayton chuckled. "Everything. Signs and spice boxes, some furniture even. But mostly toys. All kinds of toys." He reached into the box and took out a cast-iron mold in the shape of a half dozen figures all facing the same direction. "I don't know if you noticed the toy soldiers when you were going through stuff today."
"Oh, I did," she said. "They're beautiful."
"Gramps made 'em."
"And the tops and blocks?"
"Yep."
He set the mold on the table, and Joanna wrapped her fingers around his wrist. "Are you really going to sell all these things, Clayton? Do you really want to?"
"Got to move on, Jo. Gran needs the money. Besides, you can't hold on to the past." He scraped the inside of the mold with his thumbnail. Rust drifted onto the tabletop. "Sometimes it just eats away at you and blinds you to the present."
She used to feel that way, too. That was why her mother's keepsakes were inside a box on the top shelf of her closet. Joanna wasn't so sure she believed that anymore. Maybe it was the job of the past to remind one of its link to the present. Maybe, if one were especially cognizant of the signs, it could even lead the way to the future.
Joanna walked to the door of the barn and looked up at the diick, gray trees that blanketed the mountainside. Hundreds of stars crowned the tallest branches like sparkling tiaras. Patches of wildflowers, like trains of a kingly robe, swept the bases of tall, straight trunks. Their mingled sweet scents floated into the barn on beckoning fingers of a cool evening breeze.
Returning to Clayton, Joanna trailed her hand over his wrist and up his arm to where she met the rolled flannel sleeve at his elbow. "Will you walk with me, Clayton?" she said. "Out there."
He closed the lid on Henry Hardesty's trunk and followed her.
******************
The night was as close to perfect as any he could remember. With a foundation of rich Georgia soil under his feet and the solid strength of the mountain looming ahead of him, he felt grounded, like he usually did when he was here on Divinity, except for that awful time after Emily died.
It seemed a little strange after all these years to have another woman beside him as he walked the ridge of the mountain. Strange, but not wrong. Comfortable almost. Right almost. Funny, Jo wasn't anything like Emily. She wasn't anything like him, either, with her fanciful tale of a flight through time. Maybe the mountain was just what she needed to feel grounded also.
They didn't speak for a while. Jo just kept pace with him, keeping her thoughts to herself. He glanced at her time and again and tried to imagine what was going on beneath that red hair darkened by night shadows. Loose and straight, it swept the shoulders of a blouse that had belonged to Lindy. A brown skirt just touched the tops of those odd leather shoes she had worn when she arrived. When he teased her about them before supper, she had told him the shoes had cost forty-five dollars, and she was darn well going to wear them despite his opinion.
He had let out a long whistle of surprise and said, "That beats anything I've ever heard." In truth, forty-five-dollar shoes wasn't nearly as hard to swallow as the loss of over one hundred years. "I could shod a whole string of horses for forty-five dollars and still have enough left over for a saddle and a steak!"
Jo had laughed at that and kind of punched him in the arm. He liked it when she touched him. He liked that she had her hand in his now, even if he didn't know exactly what to think about her. Jo Archer was definitely fighting some personal demons that muddled her perception of reality.
That was the puzzling thing about Jo. Everything else about her was as forthright and logical as could be. She spoke her mind as directly as any man would. Maybe she was a bit sentimental, but that was just the woman in her; and as he gazed at her soft curves and distinctly feminine profile, he knew he wouldn't want to change anything about her female qualities.
Their walk had taken them a little ways up the mountain. Clayton stopped in a patch of trees that he had visited since he was a boy. He knew every inch of these woods, and even if they hadn't had starlight to guide them, he could have found his way on the blackest of nights. He sat down on a wide log that had been in the same spot for as long as he could remember. Jo sat down beside him.  "You're not afraid of the critters anymore, are you?" he said.
"Petrified," she answered, shaking her skirt around her ankles. "I guess I'm just more concerned about letting you see it."
"There isn't much on this mountain that can hurt you."
She looked up at him with eyes as dark as pin oak leaves just before they turn in autumn and gave him a rueful smile. "I'm not so sure about that."
He picked up a twig and began snapping it into inch-long segments. "So what are you going to do now, Jo? Keep looking for a way back ... or forward?"
"Wouldn't you if you got lost from this place?"
"Suppose I would." He fixed his gaze on the highest tree branches. "Can't imagine living where you say you come from, with peanut-farming presidents and dolls made of cabbages."
"It's not so bad once you get used to it," she said.
"And what about Divinity Mountain? Is it so bad?"
She took a shuddering breath. "No. I'll never forget it."
"You're cold," he said, standing up from the log and taking her elbow. "I'll take you back to the house."
She rose and stood so close to him he could tell she had washed her hair in something that smelled like cherries. He was aware of her breasts straining against the buttons of Lindy's blouse. If he had moved another couple of inches, they would have grazed his chest. He felt a familiar tugging in his groin and tightened the mental restraints that kept him from leaning toward her. But, God, he wanted to.
"Damn it, Clayton," she blurted out. "I'm not cold. I'm anything but!"
Then Jo surprised him as much as she ever had. She fastened her hands on each side of his face, went up on her toes and crushed her mouth on his.
The hell with those last few inches. His arms were around her before that old Georgia Bible-belt voice of propriety that haunted every man could have its say. He pulled her to him and felt those soft, round breasts absorb the beating of his heart.
She melted into him, making it so easy to kiss her back. And Clayton did. His mouth moved over hers, tasting and exploring with relish. When she nipped and tugged at his lower lip, he followed her lead and plunged his tongue in her mouth. She was warm and slick as apple butter, and something wild and wonderful he had almost forgotten pumped through his veins.
He had kissed women since Emily. He had done a lot more than that when the urges hit so hard he had had to take care of them. But this was different. This time his heart was leading the way. This time he cared.
Her fingers threaded into the hair at his nape. He moved his hands down her back to span her waist and pull her even closer. She -arched her back and pressed her hips against his, saying with everything but words that this kiss was only a beginning. A quick spurt of heat, like dry kindling on a hot summer day, ignited and burned a path through every nerve ending in Clayton's body. Yet this awful, nagging affection he felt for Jo insisted that he put the brakes on his spiraling cravings.
He reluctantly ended the kiss but not the embrace. Jo laid her cheek against his chest and breathed a sigh so soft it could have come from the wind rustling the leaves. He rested his chin on top of her head, and kept his arms around her. He didn't want to let her go. For the first time in his life, Clayton Hardesty was suspended somewhere between absolute delight and abjectfear. He wasn't a drinking man, but at that moment he knew what it was to walk a tightrope with about a quart jug of sour mash throwing him off balance.
"Thanks for kissing me back," she said. "I think I'd have died if you hadn't."
He didn't know if he was holding on to his future or if she would slip from his grasp and disappear into a mysterious mist of her own making. But he smiled over the top of her head, and said, "My pleasure." He had never said anything that quite so accurately conveyed his feelings.
*    *    *
When they reached the back porch of the house, Clayton stopped before opening the door. He took hold of Joanna's arms and gazed down into her face. "I'm not sure what happened between us back there," he said. "But it pleased me greatly."
She smiled up at him. "When I figure it out, I'll let you know."
He brought her close for another brief but demanding kiss that somehow conveyed both need and bewilderment. Well, join the club, Doc, Joanna thought as she preceded him into the house. Need, bewilderment and, as Lila might say it, throw a cup of passion into the mix, and there you have it... churning emotions that left Joanna's head spinning, her steps uncertain and her body yearning for more than Clayton Hardesty had thus far given.
Clayton and Joanna joined Lila in the parlor. She sat in a rocking chair next to the fireplace, her head bent over needlework. Clayton picked up a book and sat in the easy chair that was his favorite. The end of the day was a winding-down period for the Hardestys of Divinity Mountain. And time to pretend the last tumultuous minutes had never happened.
Knowing she would never be able to concentrate on a novel, Joanna took the family album from the book stand and settled on the sofa. Midnight immediately curled next to her and rested her whiskered nose on Joanna's lap.
During the next moments Joanna experienced the combustible potential inherent in a simple look from across a room. Several times the smoldering blue of Clayton's eyes met the shimmering green of her own, and the force was so powerful, she half expected a spark to ignite somewhere along the path of their glance. Pretending had never been so hard.
She knew Clayton felt the agonizingly sweet friction between them as strongly as she did. All it needed was the slightest physical touch, a threading of fingers, the brush of a hand on an arm, to fan the exquisite tension into a conflagration of heat and passion.
She opened the album smiling to herself. Never in her wildest fantasies would she have considered the lumberjack type to be the man of her dreams. Was that what Clayton had become in just over twenty-four hours ... the man of her dreams? He had been in them even before they had met. Doc Hardesty, the man with an ax in one hand and a stethoscope in the other, had shaken her world and sent her perilously close to tumbling off her already wobbly axis.
Concentrate on the album, Joanna, she told herself. She turned to a photograph of the house, one taken just at the end of the Civil War. Apparently the whole family had been summoned outside for this special picture. Maybe it was Henry Hardesty's homecoming. He and Lila stood on the porch. The children were gathered on the steps. Various adults posed in the front yard near the house. It must have been a happy time. Henry had come home from Richmond.
And then Joanna saw a woman she hadn't noticed before. She stood a little away from the family, leaning against the side of the house, her arms crossed over her chest. She wore a plain blouse and a skirt covered by an apron. Her hair was loose to her waist. She was smiling, and the familiarity of her face made Joanna gasp for breath.
Clayton came to her immediately. He put Midnight on the floor and sat on the sofa. "You all right, Jo?"
Her breathing returned to normal, but still she couldn't stop staring at the woman in the album. "Have you got a magnifying glass, Clayton?"
He looked to his grandmother, and she produced one from the drawer of an end table. She, too, came to the sofa and sat on the other side of Joanna. "What is it, Jo?" Lila asked. "Who are you looking at?"
Joanna held the glass over the woman's face. She hadn't been mistaken. The similarities were incredible. "This woman," she said. "Who is she?"
"Why, that's Mary Spenser," Lila said. "She used to work here. You remember Mary, don't you, Clay?"
He nodded. "Yeah. Nice lady. I haven't thought of her in years. Whatever happened to her?"
"She moved on in time. Went to live with her daughter I think. Mary had the gift, you know. She could see things other people couldn't Predicted the end of that awful old war when our Confederate boys were still puffed up like roosters. And she loved this old place. Kept it up just like it was her own. She was always fussing over everybody. Remember, Clay, how she used to make you tighten your muffler in winter and fasten the top button of your coat?"
Joanna positioned the album so both Clayton and Lila could see. "But look at her through the magnifying glass. Do you notice anything special about Mary?"
Lila stared hard through the glass and chuckled. "Well, I'll be. That's who you remind me of, Jo. I've been worrying over that since
I first laid eyes on you. You look enough like Mary Spenser to be kin."
Clayton agreed. "It's unbelievable."
"And I just thought of something else," Lila said. "I'm not certain about this. At my age, sometimes the details get a little unclear, but I think one of Mary's daughters married a fella named Archer. Yes, I think she did."
Lila patted Joanna's knee and stood up. "Funny coincidence, isn't it?" She yawned and put her needlework into the basket by the fireplace. Picking her way across the sea of items to be sold at auction, she said, "I'm sleepy. I'm going up to bed."
When she had gone, Joanna took the album back to the book stand. When she turned around, she realized Clayton was watching her, concern etched on his face. He knew what she was dunking, and he didn't know what to make of it any more than she did.
"It's not that uncommon a name, Jo," he offered.
She went to him and let her hands slip into the reassuring warmth of his. "No, it isn't. And I'm beginning to understand that a lot of what happens on this mountain defies explanation anyway."
Clayton didn't argue as he might have the day before. He let her go and poked at the smoldering logs in the fireplace to extinguish what was left of the fire. He turned down the wicks on the lamps, and together they left the parlor.
She went to her room by the kitchen, and he climbed the stairs to the second floor. Joanna knew that sleep wouldn't come easily, in spite of the hugging comfort of Lila's feather-filled mattress. She had just experienced the most remarkable two days of her life, and there was much to think about.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The tapping on Joanna's bedroom door was soft but insistent. She rolled over and forced her eyes open, but she couldn't see any more than she had with them closed. "Who is it?" she grumbled.
"Clayton."
"Clayton, who?"
"Come on, Jo. Get up."
She grinned and hugged a pillow to her chest. "Thanks, but I'll pass. It's still nighttime."
"It's five-thirty."
He said it with the same conviction Joanna used when she reminded Gail that it was eleven a.m., and they were late for a tennis match. "And your point is . . . ?" she said.
"Quit kidding around, Jo. I want to showyou something. Get up."
"The door's not locked. Make me." Joanna had always kept a little third grade dare in her voice, and it was perfect for goading this mountain man into action. She giggled into her pillow.
Silence.
Oops. She had gone too far over the line of nineteenth century propriety. To suggest a man enter her bedroom!  She sat up and listened for Clayton's retreating footsteps, ready to chase him down the hallway if she had to. But she didn't.
A pale yellow glow filled her open door and highlighted Clayton's large frame. "If that's the way you want it," he said.
Oh, yes.
He crossed to her bed, plopped down on the mattress, and reached for her. Then he hesitated. "You decent under all those covers?"
"I've always found that to be a matter of opinion."
"I meant, do you have on a nightgown?" There was an edge of frustration to his voice.
Joanna rolled her eyes. "Yes, I have on a nightgown. A neck-to-ankles Hardesty one to be exact."
"Good." He stood up, tossed back the covers, grabbed her around the waist and lifted.
She wasn't giving in that easily. Before her feet hit the floor, she clamped on to his shoulders, upsetting his sense of balance. Using her split-second advantage, she pulled him back on the bed. He fell on top of her, and they both sank into a cushion of Lila's feathers.
Clayton grabbed her wrists and held them over her head. Joanna buried her face against his neck and sputtered with laughter. "Now what are you going to do, you big bully?" she challenged.
She didn't know what he was going to do, but she certainly knew what he was thinking. It literally choked the laughter out of her and replaced it with some serious heart thumping. Clayton was hard against her abdomen, and his breathing was heavy in her ear. "Don't answer that," she said. "I think I know."
He rolled off her as if she had suddenly caught fire and stood beside the bed. "Cut it out, Jo."
His morality armor was back in place, but she knew it had a human chink. She tried to look contrite. She tried to feel contrite. "Sorry. Okay, I'll make this easy on you. You go away, and I'll get up and get dressed. Where do you want me to meet you, Doc?"
"You really trouble me sometimes, Jo," he said.
"I thought we established that last night. Your saying it this morning, if it is morning, is redundant."
He looked at the floor, but his amusement huffed out of his nose in a little snort. "Meet me in the barn."
"Yessir. And turn on a light, will ya?"
******************
Minutes later, Joanna wrapped her fingers around the soft, swollen teats of Dawn, the dairy cow, and gently squeezed and tugged. She looked over her shoulder at Clayton, who was watching her with undisguised humor. "This wasn't quite what I had in mind when I came out here to meet you," she said.
"Still, it's good to learn new things." He settled his hands over hers and applied pressure. "You don't have to be so gentle. Dawn's telling you that by swishing her tail. Cows want to be milked, Jo. It's their nature. You're not hurting her."
And so, following instructions, Joanna Archer milked a cow. Over the next couple of days, as she helped with chores both in the house and the outbuildings, she recognized that her life was becoming a series of firsts.
There ought to be something like a baby book for adults, she decided ... a way to record all the milestones of one's life. In her book, she would have included the first time she heard the ping of liquid hitting the sides of a galvanized dairy bucket. And the first time she kissed a man in a spring-chilly barn, her fingers sticky with fresh milk and snagging on the soft fabric of his shirt.
She would have recorded the first time she skimmed cream from the top of the pail and churned it into butter in less than fifteen minutes. And the first time she reached under the silky smooth breast of a hen to pull a perfect brown egg from her nest.
What she wouldn't have told about in her book were the walks with Clayton along the mountain ridge in the last golden moments before daylight melted into dark. She wouldn't have written about the secluded clearing among the abundant trees. The secret kisses that started as chaste as those of young lovers but soon were fired with the unquenchable passion of adults. Hands that stroked with reverent timidity and then explored with an urgency that was almost unbearable.
She wouldn't have told about the first time he loosened the buttons at her throat and thrust his hand inside her blouse to cup her swelling breast. Or the immediate response of her nipple to his touch, and the answering moan that came from deep in his throat. No, the blossoming of this kind of love, while certainly a milestone in Joanna's life, was too personal for her book. These memories belonged only in her heart.
Joanna would have given herself to Clayton if he had asked. But he didn't, despite the very definite signs radiating from every nerve in his body. Despite his heartbeat hammering against her chest and the very quick and powerful response she felt beneath the worn denim of his jeans. She suspected it was the morality of the mountain people that held him back when she was all but lost in the feel of him and the anticipation of having him inside her. She wanted to cry out with frustration, to declare that she was a "nineties woman," but he would have only answered that he was a "nineties man," and the interpretations were a century apart.
Yet what he did give her was wonderful, and what he promised was more wonderful still.
Idyllic days and passionate nights could not go on forever, and it was Colonel Billy Beaufort who reminded everyone at the Hardesty house that reality was closing in on them. The portly, mutton-chopped Habersham County auctioneer arrived on Friday morning, two days before the scheduled auction. He came to discuss final preparations for the sale and to outline his procedure for disposing of Lila's property.
Joanna disliked him immediately. He was overbearing and crude, and what was worse, he didn't have any idea of the value of Lila's possessions. Joanna might have attributed some of his ignorance to the difference in their time periods, but it gave her much more satisfaction to believe that Beaufort would have been just as big a moron even if he had lived in 1999.
His goal should have been to maximize the dollar potential of every item, but he seemed intent on doing just the opposite. He lined up crates and baskets and barrels, anything that would hold a combination of goods, and began filling them with the precious tokens Joanna had lovingly prepared all week long.
Kitchen gadgets, such as those that decorated walls of Fort Lauderdale yuppie restaurants, went all together in one crate. Salt-glazed pottery jugs went in another. Dinner-ware was crammed regardless of style and pattern into one basket, while textiles were heaped in a pile and tied with cord. "None of this stuff is worth much by itself," Beaufort claimed as he went about his plundering of Lila's life. "We'll sell similar items together for one money, giving us more time for the furniture and things in the barn."
When he picked up a cigar box of letters and papers, he told Lila she might as well throw them away, since personal items had no value at an auction. Lila showed the box to Joanna. "What do you think, Jo? Should I throw them out?"
What Joanna found in the cigar box literally caused her heart to race with excitement. Among personal messages from Henry Hardesty to his wife during the war, there were letters written to Henry from Confederate President Jefferson Davis. Elegantly scripted, the pages told Davis' staff the sad tale of the Confederacy's weakening position during the last days of the war and his plans for renewing the South's offensive and morale. A collector in Joanna's time would pay a fortune for what she held in her hands!
Once she became aware of this find, Joanna couldn't examine each item closely enough. In the minutiae of the Hardestys' lives she discovered a treasure trove she hadn't noticed before. She found rare coins in an old tin milk jug, an original Frederic Remington painting of horse soldiers of the West, and a signed James Whistler twilight painting purchased from a gallery in Richmond. And in the brocade lining of a wicker trunk, she discovered black-and-white photos of camp scenes taken by Civil War photographer Mathew Brady and a collection of stamps.
By 1999 standards, Lila Hardesty was sitting on a fortune!  One that if handled correctly could insure that she stay in her beloved home for the rest of her days living like a queen with a private medical staff at her beck and call to satisfy her protective grandson.
Joanna kept a watchful eye on the auctioneer until he finished his business and told Lila he would see her in two days. For the moment, Joanna refrained from giving her opinion of Beaufort and his tactics, but that didn't stop her mind from conjuring up all sorts of ideas. If only she could find a way to take the most valuable items back to her time! And if she could, how would she convince Lila and Clayton to let her take them? Lila still hadn't been told the mysterious circumstances surrounding Joanna's arrival at the homestead, and Clayton, despite Joanna's belief that he was growing fond of her, truly didn't believe her story.
It was time she tackled the problem of her incredible voyage once and for all, and she would have to do it on her own. She went out on the back porch, hoping a few minutes of solitude would shed some light on her situation and perhaps help her to remember a clue that had eluded her so far. What she found instead of peace and quiet was a darkening sky lit by intermittent jagged lightning and resounding with thunder.
Clayton came out the back door and looked at the sky. The first fat, heavy drops of rain fell on the porch roof as he said, "Looks like we could be in for a gully washer, Jo. You'd better come in."
"A gully washer?"
"Oh, yeah. Divinity Mountain's famous for them this time of year. You know the ravine you came over? Well, a waterfall is just at the end of it, and when we get an especially hard rain, the falls swells and dumps a torrent of water into the ravine."
"It's Georgia's version of Niagara Falls!" Lila said, coming outside to join them. "Causes mudslides down that gully wall until before you know it . . ." She stopped and stared at Clayton. "Oh, no .. . Luther and Hob just fixed that ol' bridge, and now it's likely to come down again."
As if on cue, the rain fell harder, and dense clouds turned the sky to charcoal. "I imagine so, Gran," he said, pointing to the heavens. "Those are some mean-looking thunderheads to the west of us." He opened the door for Lila to go in the house just as lightning streaked over the tallest trees on the mountain.
"You can't stay out here, Jo," he said. "You'll get soaked."
"What? Oh, yes." She was still dunking about the effects of a Georgia gully washer when she walked inside.
It rained in gusts and sheets all through dinner, and didn't show signs of letting up by bedtime. There would be no walk on the ridge this night, but Joanna's mind was too full of theories to have thought much about it. Lila went upstairs to bed mumbling something about how grateful she was they had had the roof replaced two years ago.
"I guess I'll turn in, too," Joanna told Clayton.
He kissed her before tending to the fire. "Suppose that's for the best. We'll have some cleanup to do in the morning."
Joanna went to her bedroom and leaned on the windowsill. The rain had slowed a little. Thank goodness. She wasn't looking forward to going down in that ravine in a blinding rainstorm. But she had to go. She had finally figured it all out in Lila's parlor that evening, and this time she wasn't wrong!
She went to the mud room and put on the yellow slicker that always hung there. Then she took the barn lantern by the back door and pressed her finger to her lips. "Shhh, now, Midnight. Not a sound. I'll be back before you know it."
The little dog wagged her tail and watched Joanna go into the dark, drizzly night.
******************
Clayton pulled his pillow over his head and tried to ignore the persistent scratching on his door. "What does that fool dog want now?" he grumbled.
He got up to shoo Midnight, but before he got to the door, the glow of a distant light drew his gaze out his second-floor window. Squinting into the darkness, he saw a retreating figure in a yellow slicker leave his property and head around the bend in the road. "What the devil ..."
After pulling on his trousers, he took the stairs two at a time. He didn't even think about propriety. He threw open Jo's door and burst inside only to have his anger fueled by an empty room. "Damn! She couldn't be going back to that gully!" But, of course, he knew she could.
A sketchy map of each room of the house streaked through Clayton's mind until he remembered where he had left his socks and boots. He tugged them on by the smoldering fireplace and left the house without bothering with a shirt.
He slipped and slogged down the muddy path to the ravine, surprised he didn't overtake Jo on his way. In this weather, the journey would be tough on a lightweight city girl like her. But then he remembered those shoes with the ridges in the bottom and Jo boasting that they could go through anything just like a . . .what was it? A Michelin? Still, Jo was a few straws shy of a bale to be out wandering on a night like this. Clayton knew how to saddle-break a horse. He even knew how to coax the fool stubbornness out of a mule. But he was at a loss how to make this woman do the sensible thing.
By the time he reached the ravine, she was already climbing back out. He saw the top of the nor'wester and a beam from a lantern before he saw her face, but it was enough to calm the crazy drumbeat of his heart. Worry had gotten the best of him. Yes, maybe he would like to tame her a little, but more than anything else, he just wanted to grab her and hold on.
She squealed with surprise when he reached under her arm and gave her a yank to the top. "Clayton! What are you doing here?"
He shook mud off his boots and glared at her. “I came for a picnic. What's your excuse?"
She was panting, and even in the meager light he could tell her face was flushed. "Oh, Clayton, I was right. The bridge has to be out! I saw the mist. I saw it." She grabbed his arm and pulled him to the edge of the ravine. "Look. Maybe you can still see it moving away."
He looked. He could at least do that. What he saw was ravine, darker and muddier than usual, and littered with the remains of Hob's latest bridge, but still just ravine. He gazed into her face and moved aside wet hair clinging to her cheeks. "Sorry, Jo."
"But, Clayton, it was there. I swear it. It came down the gully toward me, and would have swallowed me up like before except I clung to this side and climbed back up. But I could have gone back. I could have gone home."
He didn't know why, but her unbelievable tale didn't bother him nearly as much as simply hearing her refer to some other place as home. Had he actually come to associate her with Divinity Mountain so much that he had assumed she had as well? Obviously "home" to Jo Archer was still some crazy place a long way from Clayton's mountain. "Well, why didn't you go?" he snapped at her.
"I didn't want to. Not yet."
"Why not? What stopped you?"
She backed away from him, and the sparkle in her green eyes faded to cool jade. "I'm not done here, that's why."
"I won't hold you to our agreement," he said. "I'll give you your pay."
"First of all, Clayton, we never had an agreement," she -reminded him. "And secondly, it has nothing to do with that anyway. I want Lila's things."
"You what?"
"Well, some of them anyway. I want to take them back with me. Clayton, I can get Lila a fortune for just a few of those items that that idiot Billy Beaufort wants to toss in a junk pile."
She was fired up again, putting to shame that pitiful blue flame in the lantern. Jo burned with conviction that glittered in her eyes. She took his hands in hers, surprising him with the strength in her fingers. "You've got to let me do this, Clayton. You've got to let me help Lila."
"Jo, you're talking crazy. It's time to admit the truth now. Gran would never ... I could never let you ..."
She reached around the back of his head and pulled him down to meet her rain-soaked lips for a surprisingly warm and  extremely persuasive  kiss.  Her hands left damp, tingling trails down his bare back. "Oh, I think she would, my hard-to-convince, but wonderfully-sexy-when-wet mountain man."
His hands slid inside the rain slicker and settled on her rib cage, so his thumbs could caress the sides of her breasts. Then he kissed her thoroughly, forgetting his unexpected and totally childish bout with hurt feelings. Okay, maybe Gran would, he thought.
CHAPTER EIGHT
In the first gray light of dawn Clayton examined the cluster of familiar items on the floor of his grandmother's front room. He hadn't slept much and knew Jo hadn't either since she was in the parlor even before he was.
"So this is it?" he said. "This is what you want to take back? These old photographs, letters, coins and a couple of paintings?"
"That's it." Jo knelt down beside the things she had chosen and looked at them as if she were a mother hen and they were her chicks. "They're absolutely wonderful. Oh, I'd like to take much more, don't get me wrong. Everything in this house is valuable, but I'm worried about how much I can carry across the ravine by myself."
She wasn't really taking anything Clayton would have given two cents for himself, except for maybe the coins. They were certainly worth more than two cents, even at face value. He figured his grandmother wouldn't take too kindly to Jo making off with her tin jug money, and maybe that would put an end to this half-baked scheme for good. It wasn't the fact that Jo was planning to run off with Lila's things that bothered him. He believed that she intended to bring his grandmother the fortune she claimed it was worth in her time. It was just that he knew that despite her fervent promises, there wasn't any way she could do it.
"You know, Jo, you could wait a couple of days until Hob and Luther fix the bridge, and then you could just walk across. Did you ever think of that, or does that take all the excitement out of this little adventure of yours?"
Her eyes grew as wide as the centers of Lila's sunflowers, and she jumped to her feet. "Clayton, no! You still don't understand. You've got to keep Hob from fixing that bridge until I get back here. Otherwise I won't be able to return."
He nodded his head slowly in feigned comprehension. At least he could pretend he was catching on. "Oh, yeah, that's right. The bridge has to be out."
"Of course. And quit humoring me. You can't forget that the bridge is the key to the whole journey."
"And when do you plan on leaving?"
She looked away from him. "Right away. The sooner I go, the sooner I can come back with the money."
He studied her profile in the shadows cast by the sun coming through Lila's curtains. Her mouth pulled down at the corners, and her long lashes lay against her cheek. She looked so sad that for a moment, Clayton could almost convince himself she really was going to some destination far away from Divinity Mountain. He had to consider the possibility that in a few minutes she might truly be going away on this crazy quest for future times and impossible riches. "You'll miss the auction tomorrow," he stated, though what he really meant was, I'll miss you if you do this. You'll be giving up on us before we've really had a chance.
She took his hand and made him follow her to the sofa. When they were seated, she said, "Clayton, I know you don't believe me, but I believe with all my heart that some day you will. I'm coming back here, and I'm going to keep my promise to you and Lila. But you have to trust me enough to promise me one thing."
"What's that?"
"You can't let Billy Beaufort sell this house tomorrow."
"But, Jo, it's been advertised. It's in the paper. Notices are up at the dry goods store in town. And besides all that, Lila can't afford to stay here. I've told you all this ..."
"I know, but I'm telling you that she can stay. This house belongs in your family. It's part of your heritage, and keeping it in Hardesty hands will be my gift to this family. It's something I want to do. But you have to trust me. Money won't be a problem when I come back."
Many of Lila's possessions had been tagged for the auction and put on tables in the parlor, and Jo looked at them now. "Sell some of this if you want to, if you don't want to cancel the contract with Billy, but, Clayton, please, don't let him sell the house or the land."
Jo's faith shone in her eyes and in the stubborn thrust of her chin. She made it hard not to believe in her, but Clayton couldn't cross the line from facts to faith. "You know me better than that, Jo. Beaufort's contract doesn't mean any more to me than all the mud at the bottom of the ravine." That part was definitely true. "But Lila does mean something to me. And even though we'll never agree on this plan of yours, so do you. Every rational cell in my brain tells me this scheme is as reliable as a buckboard with one wheel about to fall off. But I guess I can stall him on selling the property if I have to."
She literally beamed. "God, Hardesty, you've got a way with words. Ever think of writing greeting cards?"
"What?"
"Never mind."
"Just one thing. How do you propose telling Lila you're going to do this? Unlike me, she's set in her ways. How are you going to get her to believe you?"
"Believe what?"
They both turned toward Lila, aware for the first time that she had come in the room.
Clayton pointed to the pile of items Jo intended to pack up for her journey. "Gran, Jo wants to take these things with her on a little trip. She thinks she can get a lot of money for them."
Lila scrutinized the selections, lifted up the paintings and photographs, and moved the coins around with her toe until she had made a bigger circle of them. Clayton looked from one to the other of the women, certain that a battle of wills was about to take place, especially when it came down to Lila Hardesty giving up her hard-earned money.
She looked over at Jo, who was only smiling expectantly, and said, "Okay."
Clayton felt as if he had lost control of his jaw muscles for a second. "Okay? That's all you're going to say ... okay?"
"Why not? She can't do a worse job with my things than that dimwit Billy Beaufort." But she did give Jo a good long look that said she hoped Jo didn't disappoint her. "So where you taking these things, dear?" she asked.
"Well, that's kind of a problem," Jo said, going to stand beside her. "I have to take them rather far away, but that's how I'll be able to get so much money for you. And, truthfully, Lila, there is just a teeny-weeny bit of risk involved. Hardly worth mentioning."
Ah, here we go, thought Clayton. Let's see how Gran reads between the lines and interprets "teeny-weeny."
"Okay," she said again. "We'd best wrap this stuff several times in canvas and put it all in a sturdy burlap feed bag. Wouldn't want anything to get wet."
The last bastion of sanity in Clayton's world had just crumbled. His no-nonsense grandmother wasn't even questioning Jo's plans. "Why would you think they'd get wet, Gran?" he asked.
She shrugged. "It's springtime in the mountains, Clayton." Enough said, she headed out of the parlor toward the back of the house. "I'll get the canvas."
A half hour later, Jo came out of her bedroom dressed in the boy's clothes she had worn when she arrived. She had mended the bottom of her pants so Midnight's chew marks hardly showed. She sat down in the middle of the parlor and began wrapping the paintings in canvas. "You could help, you know," she said, looking up at Clayton.
Yes, he supposed he could. He sat down beside her and tied string around the artwork. It was time for drastic measures, since she was obviously going to take this idea to the limit. He figured he would hit her with his most damning piece of logic, one that even she couldn't argue with. Otherwise she might actually leave. "So, let me get this straight, Jo," he began. "You're going to take this stuff to the year nineteen ninety-nine, sell it, and bring the money back to us."
"Yes, Clayton," she said impatiently, as if they had gone over it a hundred times and he was incapable of remembering.
"Do you have any of that nineteen ninety-nine money on you?" He knew she wouldn't.
"No. I have some in my backpack, though." Her eyes suddenly lit up like sunlight was shining from the inside out. "Clayton, you're a genius! I don't know why / didn't think of this. All I have to do is show you some of my money and you'll see the dates and finally realize that what I've been telling you is the truth."
She started to spring to her feet, but he caught her arm. Darn, but he was impressed with her bravado. "You can show me later. There's just one little thing you haven't thought of."
"What's that?"
He took a sampling of current bills and coins out of his pocket and showed them to her. "How is your money going to do us any good here in Georgia in eighteen ninety-three? Money has changed so much over time, I don't imagine yours and mine look much alike."
She grabbed his money and landed on her fanny with a depressing thud. A series of unintelligible squeaks came from her mouth as she continued to peruse the quarter eagles, Liberty head silver dollars and various denominations of paper money. She crumpled the bills in her fist and pounded the floor. "Damn it, Clayton, how could I have been so stupid? My money's no good now, even if I bring back buckets of it!"
“I didn't think so," he said, feeling pretty good about the very reasonable, and certainly clever snag he had caused in her plans. "Now that we've figured that out, why don't you just forget the whole thing, unwrap all that..."
She raised her face slowly and stared at him. "Unless ... unless ..." Her eyes blazed with a possible solution.  "I'll convert it. When I'm in nineteen ninety-nine, I'll convert my money to something that'll be worth a lot when I come back here. She shoved his money at his chest, and it fluttered to the floor forgotten. "Gold! That's it What's the price of gold now, Clayton?"
Tenacious, dogged, unstoppable. All these words came to his mind. "I don't know. The last time I was in Asheville, I think I saw on the window of the federal reserve bank that it was around forty dollars an ounce."
She tapped her fingernail against her lower lip. "Not a lot, but if I'm lucky, the nineteen ninety-nine price will be under three hundred when I convert. Considering what Lila's belongings will bring, we'll still make out like bandits ... not millionaire bandits like I'd hoped, but still pretty well for amateurs."
She had enough tricks up her sleeve to put a Mississippi card sharp to shame. "You're going to carry this through all the way to the end, aren't you, Jo?" he said. "You're still going. And you talk about Midnight hanging on to Calvin's pants for dear life. You, woman, don't know when to give up!"
She narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips in determination. "Maybe you ought to give me one good reason why I should!"
Oh, he had a reason all right. And she wasn't going to be happy unless he told her flat out. He hadn't said it to anyone since Emily, and he darned well better think twice before saying it to some half-crazed female who believed she was running off to God knew where to do something that anyone with an ounce of sense knew was impossible. "You just want to hear me say it, don't you? Well, don't count your chickens, Miss Archer!''
"Fine! I don't need you to say anything." She shoved the last of Lila's things into the sack and pulled the cinch string tight. “Even if you had a good reason why I shouldn't go, it wouldn't make any difference anyway."
He snorted like an angry bull and crossed his arms over his chest. "I figured that out a long time ago. Nobody talks any sense into Jo Archer."
She draped the sack over her shoulder and headed for the door. "Besides, you pig-headed oaf, I'm doing this for Lila, not you. So she won't have to give up her home and bend to your will."
He followed her out on the porch, his jaw clenching so tight his teeth hurt. "My will? I'm only acting out of concern for her. You're the one running off with her things."
She stopped at the bottom of the steps and whirled around so fast she almost slammed into him. "I told you I'm coming back."
"I know what you told me, Jo. Over and over again. Forgive me if I don't have a lot of faith in your plan."
She thrust her finger at his chest, poking him several times. He would have taken down a man for doing that, and he would have never believed a woman would try it. But Jo would, and even though he was madder than hell at her, all he could think about was grabbing her wrist, pulling her to him and kissing her until her stubbornness melted away in his arms. Since he wouldn't give her the satisfaction of seeing his weakness, he just stood there waiting for her to stop poking.
When she realized she wasn't getting a rise out of him, at least one she could see, she dropped her arm to her side. "You ..."
She probably intended to say something that would turn the air blue, but thought better of it. "You just make sure that bridge stays down, Doc. That's all I ask." She spun away from him and marched across the front yard to the path down the mountain.
Clayton didn't know Lila had come outside until she stood beside him and hollered at Jo. "Make sure you're back here before the end of May," she said. "I don't know why, but Mary Spenser used to say that if a person wanted to do something out of the ordinary on Divinity Mountain, May was the month to do it in. And it seems to me that what you're doing, Jo, is a mite peculiar."
Jo had stopped and cupped her hand around her ear. "The end of May? No problem. I'll be back by then," she called back.
Clayton watched her round the bend and then took off after her. "Damnation! Who knows what kind of trouble she'll get into."
The last thing he heard was Lila's scolding, "Don't swear, Clay Hardesty."
******************
Jo slowed her pace when she became aware that Clayton was behind her, but not enough so he would know it. Just enough so he could definitely catch up. Truthfully, her heart had soared when she had heard those three-pound, size twelve boots clomping on the packed gravel of the path down the mountain.
To say she was scared of what she was about to do was a gross understatement. To say she would miss Clayton Hardesty was one also. The thought that any of a hundred things could go wrong, none of which made any sense at all, turned her blood to ice water and chilled her to her core. But the most frightening of all was the possibility that she might never see this intractable, ill-mannered, wonderfully caring, protective man again. To say that she was falling in love with him? That was perhaps the most accurate statement of the last week of Joanna's life.
She cared about him so much that she wanted and needed to do this for him and Lila. She needed to contribute something to this family, to prove her worth in their eyes. Steve had chided her often enough for not having an ancestry from which she could draw meaning about her own life. And while she had resented his comments, on some level they had hit home. Other than her mother, no one had ever really cared about Joanna Archer beyond the level of friendship or casual lover. Not until this man of the mountain who wore his emotions on his sleeve and yet seemed incapable of expressing them.
Clayton's family, his past, present, and future one, had become much more to Joanna than pictures in an album. They had somehow become her family. There was an unmistakable feeling of kinship here on Divinity, and Joanna experienced it as surely as if she had always been a part of the mountain. And there was love. She wouldn't let them down.
She stopped at the edge of the ravine and took comfort in the large shadow that passed over her shoulder and rippled down the gully wall. Smiling to herself, she shifted the string to the burlap bag over her head to her opposite shoulder so the heaviest part of the load hung in the middle of her back. She could manage the weight quite easily.
"I've made a decision," he said.
She didn't turn around. "You have?"
"I'm canceling the auction altogether."
"Are you sure that's what you want to do?"
"Hell, no, I'm not sure. I'm just doing what you want me to do."
She turned toward him. "Does this mean you believe in what I'm doing?"
The corner of his mouth quirked up in a grimace. "Don't press your luck, Jo. I don't think a saint could believe in what you're doing. It just means I'm trusting that you'll do what you said you'd do."
"And bring back the money?"
"No. I don't give a damn about the money anymore. I just want you to bring yourself back."
Suddenly there was no more chilling fear. Her heart now pumped blood through her veins as rich and warm as syrup. She grinned up at him. "Prove it, Doc."
He wrapped his big arms around her and pulled her to his chest. His hands got tangled in the bag and ties at her back, but he found his way to her silk blouse quickly enough. His callused palms rasped against the fine material, pulling the fabric away from her skin, but men the gentle friction of his hands found the smooth plane of her bare back.
Joanna leaned against him, savoring the strong support of his body, the slightly awkward, but wonderfully sensitive strokes of his hands. She tilted her face toward his and waited for his fingers to cup her chin. When she raised up on her toes, he bent to meet her, taking her mouth in a demanding crush of restrained passion.
His voice was deep and hoarse when they broke apart. "I'll make sure that bridge stays down, but you do what Gran says. You be back here before the end of May. She knows about things like this, and I wouldn't be the one to cross her."
Joanna studied his face feature by feature, the sunlit cobalt of his eyes, the slightly crooked nose she had yet to ask him about, his full mouth set in a grim line above a tense jaw. She ran her fingertips down the thin lines at the corner of his eye to the honey-textured leather of his skin. Yes, she loved him. She was as certain of that as she was uncertain of the path that had brought her to him.
Did he love her? She wondered in this moment before she left him, when his hand pressed against the small of her back holding her to him, when his heart beat against her chest, when his lips descended to take hers for another brief, gentle caress. She believed it was love she saw in his face, and even if he didn't say it, it was enough. "I'll be back in time, Doc," she said, smiling at him. "You count on it."
She stepped away and began her descent into the ravine. Without asking permission, he followed her down.
When they reached the bottom a cold wind whipped down the gully. Joanna grabbed his arm and pointed. "Look, Clayton, there it is, just like I told you."
The mist rolled and curled like a tower of gray steam toward them. The temperature dropped. The air became damp with heavy moisture that clung to their clothing. Clayton trembled beside her and tried to pull her to the edge. "Get out of here, Jo," he said. "I don't know what this is, but I don't like it."
"It's all right," she assured him as the fog began to envelope her.
He hollered at her, but his voice grew fainter as the atmosphere thickened. "I'm not leaving you here. You've got to come back ..."
His fingers, which had felt like iron manacles around her wrist just seconds before, slipped away, leaving her skin biting in the cold air. She knew he wouldn't have left her if he could have prevented it, but Clayton could not penetrate the mist. He was not meant to.
Her hand remained outstretched through the swirling fog, but she could no longer see or touch any part of his body. He called her name, and she could just hear it through the cyclonic thunder of thick air eddying around her. "Jo, Jo . . . ," his voice called faintly. "Jo, I love you." 
She pushed her way through the mist as she had done before and emerged on the other side. She was damp and cold as she had been before. Her face streamed with moisture, but this time she realized that part of the wetness came from tears. Without stopping to think about what she had done, for fear she would lose her courage and cross back over, she began the climb to the top of the ravine. In minutes, she clambered over the edge and looked back across the gully. There was nothing there but a ragged mountain path leading upward. To her back was a wooden sign. Joanna stepped around it and read, "Danger. Bridge Out." She walked to the side of the road and entered a dense area of trees. She found the Jeep Cherokee where she had left it, her wallet and cell phone under the front seat. Fishing the keys out of her pocket, she opened the rear door and stowed the burlap bag inside. Then she climbed behind the wheel, started the engine, maneuvered the Jeep around to the opposite direction, and headed back to the Atlanta airport.
CHAPTER NINE
It wasn't easy for Joanna to explain to the supervisor at National Car Rental that the missing person's report filed on her with the Atlanta police by Steve Dennison was simply a huge misunderstanding. Yes, of course she realized that she should have contacted the agency when she knew she would be late returning the Cherokee; but she had been in a remote area, and foul weather had interrupted phone service. Yes, of course she would pay the total cost of renting the car, plus the penalty for lateness.
Once that problem was solved, Joanna managed to catch a flight to Fort Lauderdale which landed in the late afternoon. She took a taxi the short distance from the airport to her condominium on Harbor Beach. She had lived in the same neighborhood for four years, yet the well-manicured streets, tile roofs, and pastel stucco buildings seemed to belong to another time and place. Or, more likely, she did.
When she stepped into her villa and viewed the shimmering brass and glass furnishings, she felt as if she were in someone else's home. One incredible, inexplicable week in Joanna Archer's life had changed her forever.
The  red  message  light  on  her  answering  machine blinked an urgent greeting. Some of the messages were from Gail, ranging from worried to frantic. Most of them were from Steve. The first messages received on the day of their sail to the Bahamas were angry and threatening. The next few expressed his bewilderment that she "could do something like this to us," and finally, the last messages hinted at concern that perhaps something had really happened to her. Joanna erased them all and got in the shower. 
The next morning she called Gail.
"Where in the world have you been?" her friend squealed into the phone. "I've been panic-stricken. And, Steve . .. he's just beside himself."
Joanna held the phone between her cheek and collarbone while she flipped through the yellow pages looking for coin dealers. "Beside himself? Hmmm . . . two Steves. What a frightening thought."
“Answers, Joanna.''
How far should she test her friend's faith, Joanna wondered. The truth might be too much for even Gail to handle. "It all started with a garage sale ... ," she began, and filled in the details of the last week, omitting the actual experience with the mist and the loss of over one hundred years. "So that's it, basically. I returned the album and fell in love with the family that owned it—one member particularly. I'm going back, Gail, and if he'll have me for good, I'm staying."
Gail was a sucker for a good romance, and took this news pretty much as Joanna expected she would. "Oooo, I've got goose bumps, Joanna. And while you've been telling me this, I've been holding on to the love crystal I wear around my neck. It's turning warm in my hand right now! This is the real thing for you. I know it."
Joanna smiled into the phone. "I think so, too, but it helps to know the crystal approves. So tell me, how did you get along in the shop this week?"
"Fine. I sold some things."
"Good, because here's the deal. I'm meeting with a lawyer tomorrow to have some papers drawn up. If I'm not back here by June first," and I pray to God I'm not, "the business is yours. And this condo as well."
"What? Are you crazy?"
Joanna laughed. "There are people who think so. Anyway, consult your good luck crystal and see if it's getting hot, because I'm telling you the truth. Meet me for lunch on Thursday and we'll sign the papers."
Her proposal was answered with rippling giggles. "Me, a homeowner? A business woman? Oh, my stars! You're the best, Joanna. This helps to take the sting out of losing my best friend, but, gee, I'm gonna miss you."
"Same here. Gotta run, kiddo. Just promise me you won't forget little things like rent and mortgage payments."
Joanna hung up and mapped out her day. Her stops included art galleries, stamp and coin dealers, auctions and antique dealers. By the end of the day she would have a pretty good idea what Lila Hardesty's things were worth.
******************
It was dark when Joanna pulled into her street, the gas gauge in the Toyota nearly on Empty, and a sackful of tacos on the seat beside her. Her heart sank when she saw Steve's BMW in front of her villa. Pulling off to the side, since he had occupied the short driveway, she resigned herself to facing what she knew would be an unpleasant encounter.
He opened the door before she even got up the walkway to the front entrance. She allowed him to enclose her in a rigid embrace.
"My God, Joanna, I've been so worried."
Funny, it hadn't been worry she had noticed in his cool gray eyes.
He held her at arm's length. "What happened to you? Where have you been? Are you all right? I've been frantic. I even filed a missing person's report."
She walked past him into the villa. "I know you did, Steve, and I apologize for any trouble I put you through. But I'm fine. You can see that."
A short silence followed, and she sensed his escalating anger. "You're fine?" he repeated. "You've been gone a week, with no explanation to anyone, no phone calls, no messages, not even an e-mail for chrissakes, and all you can say is you're 'fine'?"
She set the tacos on the foyer table and leaned Lila Hardesty's burlap sack against its leg. Then she turned to face him. "I haven't had time to say much else."
He tapped the bezel of his watch with his index finger at the same time his toe thumped the tile floor. "Well, you have time now. Lots of it."
"Actually, no, I don't. I'm going to an auction tonight on the beach."
"An auction?" His voice rose a notch, indicating he wouldn't have been more surprised if she had said strip joint.
"Yes. They handle artwork. .. you know, paintings? And I want to go and check out the prices they get."
He waggled his finger back and forth between their faces. "Oh, no, Joanna. You're not going to put me off. Not after bailing on the trip with Les and Elaine. Do you have any idea how embarrassing that was for me? Do you know how ridiculous you made me look?" The finger suddenly became a wand pointing from him to Joanna. "We were supposed to be a team, you and me. There for each other. Do you know what that means, Joanna? Do you know what it means to count on someone? To expect that that person will support you and not let you down?"
Oh, yes, she knew. She thought of a man she would trust with her life, one who promised to prevent the rebuilding of the bridge on Divinity Mountain. A man who had held on to her wrist until only the strength of some mysterious power had forced him to let her go. A man who had called out he loved her, and who wouldn't have said the words unless they had come from his heart. A man who had learned to trust her despite the logic that cautioned him otherwise. "Yes, Steve," she said, "I know what it means to count on someone. The problem is, I don't think you do."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means that you've always counted on me, but I've never been able to count on you. You've never cared about what I want, have you? Our relationship was fine as long as I went along with your plans. As long as I never mentioned having any of my own."
He shook his head in disbelief. If this had been a courtroom, and she had been his client, he would have been going for an insanity plea. "You're bonkers, Joanna. I don't know where you've been or what you've been doing. For all I know you could have been in Podunkville, Georgia, with that freaky little album of yours creating a shrine to all your hillbilly friends. Maybe your brain is fried on moonshine or you've been smoking poppies in your corncob pipe."
He assumed a no-nonsense demeanor. "I'm sorry to say this, Joanna, but I'm afraid it could be too late for us. I'm afraid that without some sincere damage control on your part, what we had could be ruined, irreparable."
She struggled to maintain a straight face, but her sarcasm leaked out on a gust of choking laughter. "Gosh, Steve, do you think so?"
Steve Dennison actually huffed like a steam engine, as if her words had struck him in the chest and knocked the wind out. "If I walk out that door, Joanna, I won't be back."
She arched her brows at him and nodded. "I'm kind of counting on that."
She watched his back as he left, thinking it odd she had never noticed before that even the back of his pants showed an ironed crease. Then she opened the taco bag, took one tortilla out of the tissue wrapper and bit into it. Spicy hamburger and cheese melted over her tongue. As she chewed, she looked at the logo on the bag. "Now these, I'll miss!"
******************
Several hectic days later, Joanna went to the bank to cash the various checks she had accumulated selling Lila's belongings. She had consulted many different buyers to insure that she would get the most money possible for each item. The James Whistler painting alone had brought over fifty thousand dollars. One rare stamp sold for thirty-five thousand. The coin and stamp dealer she had visited was extremely fair, giving her nearly book value for everything she showed him. Of course, it helped that Lila's things were in rare mint condition, as they should be. They truly weren't that old!
An antique dealer had put Joanna in touch with a Civil War collector who paid her twenty-five thousand dollars for the Jefferson Davis letters. A wary buyer, he had been suspicious since the papers weren't more yellowed and dog-eared, but after verifying their authenticity, he gladly paid.
All in all, when Joanna left the bank, she had almost two hundred and forty thousand dollars packed in her leather briefcase. Now her problem was . . . what to do with it.
She called on a friend who owned a pawn shop in downtown Fort Lauderdale. She had furnished his intracoastal home with Italian Renaissance antiques, and had remained close to his family ever since. Joanna trusted Leo's judgment. She rang the bell outside his shop, and when he saw her, he buzzed her in.
He gave her a peck on both cheeks. "Hey, Joanna. How you been?"
"Great, Leo. I've got a little problem I hope you can help me with."
She set the briefcase on his counter and opened it. He let loose with an appreciative whistle. "Sweetheart, this ain't no little problem." He picked up a stack of bills and fanned them. "Fact of the matter, this ain't no problem at all. What'd you do, rob an armored car?"
She laughed. "No, it's legitimate, every last cent. I sold some estate items that belonged to a friend of mine. But there is a problem. She can't use the cash. I told her I'd try to convert it to something else . .. like gold maybe. What do you think?"
He shrugged. "I think you can't go wrong with gold. But take a little advice, Joanna. Buy scrap and take it to the smelter. Tell him you want it brought up to twenty-four karat. Give him one day, and he'll hand it back to you in nice, neat chunks you can handle, and it'll be worth more in the long run that way. He won't charge you so much either because he'll make money off the alloys."
It made sense to Joanna. Besides, she knew Leo wouldn't steer her wrong. "What's the price of gold today, Leo?"
He smiled. "You're in luck. It's a buyer's market. Only three hundred an ounce."
That was what she had hoped for. "And have you got enough scrap to convert two hundred and forty thousand dollars' worth?"
"You've never seen my vault, Joanna?" When she indicated she hadn't, he walked to the end of his counter and raised a bar door to let her inside. "Come feast your eyes. And since I know the price is going to drop a little more tomorrow, I'll give you a better price."
Joanna followed him into a back room. He unlocked another door and revealed a seven-foot, black and gold Wells Fargo safe. "Hope you got good muscles, Joanna," he said.
"Why's that?"
He grinned over his shoulder. "You do realize that eight hundred troy ounces of gold is over sixty pounds."
"Sixty pounds!" She pictured herself trying to lug a sixty-pound carry-on satchel onto the plane, then loading it into a rental car and dragging it through the mist of the Divinity Mountain ravine. Her muscles ached just dunking about it, and her confidence in her plan plummeted. "I don't think I can handle that much weight," she said.
Leo bent down and began turning the combination lock on the safe. "I got a suggestion for you. What d'ya say to diamonds?"
"Diamonds?"
"You give your lady friend part of the money in gold nuggets and the rest in Leo Rizzilo's first-rate diamonds. They'll increase in value each year she keeps them. She'll be happy."
He handed Joanna a felt bag and opened the door to the vault. A table sat just inside with a scale and jeweler's loop on top. Then Leo began pulling out velvet-lined drawers one after the other. Each one was filled with gold jewelry and loose diamonds. He chuckled when he saw the expression on her face. "Close your mouth, Joanna. Open the bag, and start picking. I'll tell you when you have two hundred and forty thousand worth."
"Oh, Leo, this is going to be fun!"
Three hours later, Joanna delivered a bag of scrap gold to the smelter Leo recommended. He promised to have it ready the next morning, which was May thirtieth. Everything was working perfecdy toward her deadline. She got a flight to Atlanta the next afternoon and reserved a rental car. Then she called Gail and made plans to have dinner that night.
"You get your chance to pay me back," she teased when she heard her friend's voice over the phone.
"You mean I can buy you dinner in exchange for a business and a beachfront villa?"
"That's right"
"The sky's the limit tonight, girlfriend. And I know I'm going to end up crying all over my crab claws!"
******************
Packing for the rest of her life with only a backpack to put it all in presented quite a challenge to Joanna the next morning. But if she was going to make it across the ravine with a minimum of trouble, then she couldn't be weighted down with luggage. At least she had purchased a wilderness pack, one of those roomy ones designed to hold a tent, cooking gear, and everything else essential to life in the wild.
The first item she stowed in the pack was the velvet bag containing nearly twenty pounds of pure gold and the diamonds. Next she chose her most comfortable loafers, a pair of jeans, twill slacks, one long rayon skirt, two blouses, a sweatshirt and a jacket. She would wear her Reeboks with a second pair of jeans. When she looked through her lingerie drawer, she picked out the barest necessities, but couldn't resist adding a nearly weightless, but super sexy nightie she had bought weeks ago but had never worn. She smiled when she thought of Clayton's face if she ever got to wear it for him.
He would like it, wouldn't he? Of course he would, she decided, but that split second of doubt, and the exhaustion of the last days, admitted a flood of insecurities into Joanna's mind. She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were puffy and red, her lips tense with tiny lines. Oh, God, what if Clayton didn't want her back? What if he didn't want her to stay? Through the howl of the wind in the ravine, she had heard him say he loved her, but perhaps it was only an impulsive declaration based on the bizarre occurrences at the time.
Maybe when he had had time to think about the consequences of such an abrupt avowal, he had decided that Joanna and her mysterious voyage through time were simply too much for a simple, logical country veterinarian. It was entirely possible that Joanna would trek through the tempestuous gully later that afternoon only to present Clayton with the velvet bag and then find herself journeying back again to her own time.
Even worse, what if Clayton hadn't kept his word about the bridge? What if he had seen this condition as the way to be rid of her once and for all? Joanna tugged the zipper closed on her backpack pouch with unnecessary force. No, Clayton wouldn't do that. He wouldn't allow the bridge to be rebuilt. He was a man of honor. That much she knew.
"Don't play these mind games, Joanna," she told herself. "He'll want you to stay. You've seen it in his eyes. Felt it in his touch. Known it, really, since you first connected with his likeness in an old album."
No, she wouldn't let doubt and uncertainty overcome her. She had had enough of both in her life. She checked her wristwatch, finding she still had a few hours until her flight and a little room left in her pack. Keep busy. What other possessions would she take with her? What was there that she truly didn't want to live without? Her gaze lifted to the top of her closet and settled on the cedar box that contained the few remembrances she had kept from her mother's belongings.
She hadn't looked in the box since her mother died, but now it was time. She sat on her bed and placed the box beside her. Tears she had thought had dried up years before came fresh to her eyes. It wasn't that there was anything valuable in the box, at least in terms of money. There wasn't. But everything was so typical of Evelyn Archer. Sweetly sentimental of the past, and full of a mother's dreams for her child.
There were ticket stubs from the time Evelyn tookJoanna to see summer theater. There was a bronze-toned Liberty Bell bank purchased when they went to Philadelphia for a vacation. Of course, there were pictures of Joanna growing up, and satin-ribboned barrettes that Joanna wore in her hair when she was a toddler. A small, lacquered Oriental box contained baby-fine curls. The box was labeled, "Joanna's first haircut."
At the bottom of the box was an envelope that said, "This belonged to my great-great grandmother." Inside was a simple gold locket. Joanna opened it and was disappointed to discover that it was empty. She ran her thumb over the warm patina of the outside of the locket and then put it back in its envelope. Yes, definitely Evelyn Archer's memories would go in Joanna's backpack. The past no longer hurt her. As she learned on Divinity Mountain, the past was the link to the present, the path to the future.
Joanna ate lunch, showered and dressed for her flight. With plenty of time to spare, she telephoned for a taxi. She carried the backpack to the door and stood for a moment looking at the things she had once thought so important, furnishings she had believed defined who she was and what she wanted from life. With a wry smile and a shrug of her shoulders, she turned her back on the things she hoped with all her heart would soon belong to Gail. She had been so wrong to think she could erase who she really was with possessions and external success.
She walked outside the villa and locked the door behind her. "No wonder I've never truly been happy, Mom," she said. "I've spent the last years of my life escaping what I should have been embracing. If I'd only known." She put the key under the that where Gail would find it and walked to the curb to wait for the taxi. "It's never too late to learn," she said. "I just hope my teacher wants me as much as I want him."
CHAPTER TEN
The Delta Airlines agent stepped up to the microphone. Maybe it's good news this time, Joanna thought. We certainly could use some! Since five o'clock that afternoon, there had been repeated flight delays due to inclement weather in the Atlanta area. Now, four hours later, patience was in short supply in the Delta concourse waiting room. Joanna prayed the agent was about to inform the Fort Lauderdale passengers that it was finally time to board.
“Ladies and gentlemen." Her voice caught the attention of the anxious travelers. "I am sorry to report that because of a continuing unstable air mass over Atlanta Hartsfield International Airport, all flights into Atlanta have been canceled for tonight."
Voices in the waiting room rose as one tortured moan. This can't be happening, Joanna thought, not after all my careful planning.
"If you will please form a line at the check-in counter, a Delta Airlines employee will assist you with alternate reservations and accommodations for tonight at local hotels.
Joanna pondered what she should do. She could go home, of course, but Lila's eerie warning kept repeating in her mind. "Make sure you're back before the end of May," she had said. Tomorrow was May thirty-first, and while Lila's deadline seemed based solely on Mary Spenser's superstitious beliefs, Joanna knew only too well how the implausible could become reality on Divinity Mountain. She wasn't about to tempt fate. No, she would stay at the airport and try to catch a few hours' sleep in the waiting room. Maybe that way she would be guaranteed a seat on the first flight out in the morning.
She stood in line and waited for her turn with the reservations agent. "It's crucial that I get to Atlanta tomorrow," she explained. "As early as possible."
"I understand, Miss Archer, but unfortunately all our flights for tomorrow have been booked well in advance. Even with the addition of two more planes, it's going to be difficult to get everyone on board. As it is, you're eighth in line for standby seating."
Good grief, she could drive to north Georgia in twelve or thirteen hours. Assuming she could stay awake, and assuming the foul weather didn't affect her driving, she would be at Divinity Mountain with time to spare. No, it was too risky. She was already exhausted, and her sporty little car was not known for its abilities on wet roads.
"How bad is the weather in Atlanta?" she asked.
"Terrible. The Atlanta area has had six inches of rain in the last few hours. Funnel clouds have been sighted around the airport, and wind gusts are up to seventy miles an hour." The agent grimaced in sympathy. "It seems like that crazy Pacific Ocean weather pattern is never going to leave us alone."
"But can you be certain that flights will get into Harts-field tomorrow?" Joanna asked.
"That's what we're being told. It's a slow-moving weather system, but it is moving. Should be off the Atlantic coast by daylight."
Yes, staying the night in the airport was Joanna's best plan. "Okay, then," she said, "put me down as number eight for standby."
			*	*	*	
Nearly eighteen hours later, Joanna finally boarded a flight to Atlanta. It was three o'clock the afternoon of May thirty-first. Her stomach churned with the acid of too many fast food meals, and her clothes were wrinkled from hours of sitting. Her joints ached from trying to find a comfortable position in a vinyl airport chair with the straps of her backpack wrapped several times around her arms for safekeeping. And Lila's warning loomed like a black cloud on an already gloomy horizon.
Nevertheless when the 737 aircraft finally lifted off from the Fort Lauderdale runway, Joanna felt a calm wash over her. She could still make it. She had checked with the local Avis representative and had been assured that a car waited for her in Atlanta. It was only an hour-and-a-half flight and then less than a two-hour drive. There should still be hours of May left when she finally reached the ravine.
Joanna had never been a tense flyer, but her nerve endings were practically crackling under her skin two and a half hours later when her plane was still circling over Hartsfield Airport.
"Ladies and gentlemen," came the calm butweary voice of the captain, "due to the heavy volume of air traffic, we expect to circle for another ten to fifteen minutes before we're cleared to land. Again, we are sorry for the delay, but we should be at the gate within the half hour."
It seemed to take forever for the door to the plane to open and the passengers to exit onto the jetway. Joanna didn't have any luggage to worry about, but there was still the normal delay at the car rental counter. It was seven-fifteen before she drove a compact Chevy two-door sedan out of the Avis lot.
Driving was tedious along the major highway leading east out of Atlanta, and Joanna was only one of many drivers trying to escape the confines of the city. At least she was no longer tired. Her adrenaline was pumping furiously enough to keep her alert and cautious despite her sleep deprivation. Even so, time dragged, along with the miles, and whenever she looked at her watch, only minutes had passed.
Like a rush of fresh air, the traffic finally thinned, and at eight-thirty Joanna turned onto Highway 23 and headed toward Divinity Mountain. Darkness had settled like a black cloak over the countryside. The Chevy's headlights provided the only illumination on the lonely stretch of rain-drenched blacktop. Clouds remaining in the wake of Atlanta's storms obliterated all natural sky light.
Joanna rolled down the driver's side window and leaned her elbow on the door. She hadn't passed many vehicles, and while she wondered about this unexpected solitude, she was grateful for the speed at which she was able to travel.
At ten-thirty she spotted the small sign that pointed the way to Divinity Mountain. Her heart beat an erratic pattern of excitement and anxiety. In minutes she would proceed with the biggest decision of her life, one that was probably unalterable, and one that would change everything about her future. It would actually make the past her future, and the present, as she now knew it, nonexistent. And yet, there wasn't one doubt in her mind. This was what she wanted to do, and Clayton Hardesty was the man she wanted to grow old with.
She turned the wheel and began the slow, steady climb up the mountain. She was sure of her decision, but that didn't stop old insecurities from returning to plague her. What if he doesn't want me? What if there is no way back to him? What if I cross over and the homestead is no longer there? Joanna concentrated on the narrow, uneven path in front of her, guiding the Chevy to her destiny while she tried to put her fears to rest. She would know all the answers soon enough.
After a quarter of a mile, the way became impassable, and the tires of the Chevy sank in thick muck. The reason for the scarcity of other vehicles suddenly became clear. No doubt most of these country roads were washed out because of flooding and mudslides. The thought that crews would probably be out the next morning to clear the way did little to bolster Joanna's confidence. She needed to reach the ravine tonight.
Like a recurring drum beat, Lila's warning repeated in Joanna's mind. "Make sure you're back here before the end of May." Mary Spenser always said strange things happen this time of the year.
Nonsense, she told herself. Why would the month of May have anything to do with getting back to 1893? But deep inside she knew that it didn't have to make sense. Her entire journey through the years hadn't made sense, but it had definitely happened! "Don't question it, Joanna," she said. "Just accept that you'd better be at the ravine before midnight."
She cut the Chevy's engine, opened the door, and stepped into a puddle of mud that sucked her entire shoe into its gooey depths. Knowing she would have to walk despite the conditions, Joanna grabbed the backpack, unzipped a pouch, and withdrew a flashlight. At least she was thankful she had had the foresight to include it as a possible necessity.
Leaving the headlights burning, she began slogging her way up the mountain. She hoped she wouldn't be returning the car anyway. As long as she was going to alienate another rental agency, they might as well add dead battery to her list of offenses.
******************
It took nearly an hour to progress the three-quarters of a mile to the ravine. The headlights had helped for perhaps half the distance, but Joanna had relied solely on her flashlight for the last of the difficult climb. The meager beam wasn't much comfort when every step she took conjured up visions of all sorts of creatures lurking just under the mucky surface. Joanna may have decided to spend the rest of her life on Divinity Mountain; but for the time being she was still conditioned as a city girl, and thinking of snakes and critters scurrying underfoot in the dark sent ice water through her veins.
When she finally reached the ravine, every muscle in Joanna's body cried out in protest of the rigorous journey.  Each time she had sunk her foot into the mud, it had taken three times as much effort to withdraw it. And the backpack seemed to increase by pounds with every inch she climbed. Her body ached, but her heart rejoiced, for she shone her light on the simple sign that warned that the bridge was out.
She sat down on a tree stump and drew a long breath of relief. Thank goodness! She had crossed the first of her mental hurdles, and finding the bridge was still down was indeed a triumph. Her digital watch blinked, "11:48." There was no time to waste. She aimed the flashlight across the ravine. The beam disappeared into utter blackness revealing nothing of the other side. "What did you expect?" she asked grimly. "You know nothing exists until you're over."
She next directed the light into the ravine, but she didn't stop to think about the dark void revealed to her. If she had, her courage might have abandoned her altogether. She checked the straps on the backpack one last time, and holding the flashlight in one hand she reached for a limb near the top of the ravine. Using it as a first lifeline, she began her descent.
The ravine wall was slick with mud and sediment. Small stones and bits of twig and bark cut into Joanna's hands. The soles of her trusty Reeboks slipped on the slimy surface, and it was only by grasping outcroppings of roots and rocks that she was able to keep from falling into the chasm.
Still, her descent only took a few minutes. She was at the bottom with five minutes to spare. But would it be enough? This was it—the exact moment she had prepared for and dreamt about. Nothing could go wrong now. She was almost home.
She aimed her light toward the end of the gully where it curved to the falls beyond, where the mist originated. Her heart thumped crazily against her ribs. Anxiety crackled along her nerve endings until she could feel the hairs rise on her arms. She waited for the change in temperature she knew should come, and when it didn't, she trembled as violently as if it had.
Where was the mist? Joanna gripped the flashlight and willed it to reveal the fog coming down the gully. Her hand shook so badly she had to grasp her wrist with her other hand to keep from dropping the light. And still the beam only reflected off mud-slicked gully walls.
She squared off against the dark void and challenged fate. "Come on, damn you! I'm here. I'm ready."
Precious seconds that seemed like minutes passed in slow motion. "No!" Joanna shouted down the endless ebony pit. "I still have time. It's not midnight yet." The awful crushing weight of failure settled on her shoulders until she felt her knees begin to buckle. Bitter despair compressed her lungs until each breath became an effort in willpower. It can't end like this, she thought. Not in the bottom of this muddy ravine, so close to her goal.
Tears filled her eyes, and an overpowering weariness turned her insides to rag doll stuffing. It was all she could do to stay on her feet. What had it all been for? Why had she been granted a glimpse of happiness only to have it snatched away by a cruel trick of fate? She choked back a sob that shuddered through her body and then raised her face to the ribbon of sky visible at the top of the gully. The heavens were as black above her as was the earth beneath her feet. "Clayton!" she shouted with what little strength she had left. "Clayton, where are you?"
Suddenly her hair lifted off her shoulders on a gust of cold wind. The tears dried on her cheeks and were replaced by a cloying wetness that penetrated her clothes. Joanna aimed her light down the ravine. There it was swirling toward her . .. gray, tumultuous, filling the ravine, and as beautiful a sight as she had ever seen.
She embraced the mist, raised her arms to welcome it, and cried with joy as it enclosed her in its chilling charcoal cloak. She turned slowly, filling her lungs with moist heavy air that churned around her and greeted her with howls of glorious power. And through the tempestuous fury she heard his voice. "Jo, Jo, are you there? Answer me, Jo."
Coming out of the mist, she scrambled for the ravine wall. When she looked up, she saw his form silhouetted in amber light. The barn lantern! She dropped her flashlight, and it was quickly swallowed up in the murky depths of the gully basin. Then she climbed toward his light, the only guide she needed.
He met her halfway. His hands found hers, and he pulled her up until he could grasp her under her arms. Then, as if the heavy backpack didn't exist, she was lifted effortlessly to the other side. He pulled her to him, and they tumbled in soft, damp soil like two children, arms and legs entwined and clinging. He said her name over and over. Joanna tried to say his, but she could only cry and listen to the sound of his voice.
He stroked her hair and soothed her until her cries became whimpers of pure joy. Then through the mud and grime coating her face, he kissed her on her lips, her cheeks, her eyelids. Everywhere she had skin, his mouth caressed and welcomed her home. She was aware of nothing but his hands and his lips and the familiar soap and flannel scent of his body.
"I knew you'd come back," he said. "And so did Gran. County engineers were here all last week drawing up plans for a permanent wood bridge. Gran fought as hard as I did to make them postpone building until June first. We've taken turns here by the ravine watching for you, and then tonight I stayed straight through. Gran knew you'd be back tonight."
He grinned at her, and she dissolved into tears all over again at the sight of him. "You did kind of cut it close, though, didn't you?" he said. "I believed in you all along, but when it got to be two minutes till twelve ... Geez, Jo, do you always have to threaten me with a heart attack?"
She held his face in her hands and kissed him hard. "What's the matter? You can't take a little excitement in your life? Because, sweetheart, you haven't seen anything yet!"
"Oh, yeah?" He chuckled, and the sound was like a chorus of angels. "How's this for excitement?" He took her hand and rubbed his thumb along her knuckles. "Jo Archer, will you marry me at noon on Saturday in Pinkney Falls? It's all set up with me justice of the peace ... assuming you'd say yes. You can wear Gran's wedding dress. Of course, if that's not enough time . . ."
Of course it was enough time! What did time mean to Joanna anyway?
"Clayton, I think I like this impulsive side of you," she said.
"I'm glad to hear that because I've got something else to tell you. I quit my job in Asheville, and I've joined with Doc Merriweather in Pinkney Falls. He's getting too old to handle the large animals, so I'll be doing the farm calls while he takes the office ones. There may not be a lot of money for a while ..."
Joanna patted the backpack. "Not a problem."
He gave her a look that said he had completely forgotten about the money she had promised to bring back, or at least it was the last thing on his mind. "So, what's your answer?" he said. "You've got to say yes, Jo, because to tell you the truth, I can't stop thinking about..."
He glanced away, but she pulled his gaze back to hers. "About what?"
"About ... well, you've got to give up that downstairs bedroom before I go out of my mind, and since I've got to marry you first..."
She had never heard anything quite so wonderful in her life. "Maybe it's not the impulsive Clayton I love as much as the old-fashioned Clayton," she said. "Never mind. I'll marry both of you."
His kisses fired her with passion once more. At the same time, everything she loved about his mountain home filled her with contentment. Lila, the farm, an attic full of family treasures, Henry Hardesty's barn full of wonderful toys, the animals with special names ... the animals? What was that persistent tugging on her jeans? That low growl of frustration?
Joanna sat back and looked at the origin of the strange sensations. "Midnight!" she said. "Stop that right now."
The little dog sat on her haunches and looked back at Joanna with big brown eyes. Then she wiggled over and licked her hand.
"Thanks," Joanna said. "It's good to be back."
EPILOGUE
Joanna finished painting the mane of the wooden rocking horse she had been working on, even though she knew Clayton had come in the barn. He liked to sneak up and surprise her, and because he did, she always let him believe that's exactly what he was doing. She was never fooled, though. Even if Midnight hadn't suddenly jumped up and begun wagging her tail, Joanna would have known Clayton was near. In the last three weeks she had developed a special sense just for him.
His arms went around her waist, and his lips settled just under her ear. "Afternoon, gorgeous," he said.
She jumped just enough to make the performance believable and then leaned into his nuzzling. "What are you doing home so early, Doc? It's still officially springtime for one more day. Aren't there any calves getting birthed or stallions needing help with mating?" She turned in his arms and kissed his mouth. "You're especially good at that from what I hear."
"Oh, you hear that, do you?" he teased. "I hear any stallion can be counted on if he's prancing around for the proper mare. But to answer your question, I'm home early because Gran told me to be."
"Good reason."
"Yeah, she told me this morning I have to take you into Pinkney Falls this afternoon to get your picture taken."
Joanna set her paintbrush on Henry Hardesty's work-table and turned her full attention to her husband. "My picture taken?"
"Yep. In the wedding dress. Gran says a photographer's come to town, and he'll only be here a couple of days. I guess that blank page in the family album has been causing her a lot of concern lately."
Joanna smiled. "Well, in that case, I'll go get dressed. I definitely want my picture in that spot before some other equally clever woman recognizes your sterling qualities and tries to take my place."
"That's right. I understand there's a bunch of them already lining up down the mountain."
She picked up the paintbrush and shoved it into his hand. "While I'm gone, make yourself useful. Finish painting the tail."
"You really like making these toys, don't you, Jo?"
"Yes, I really do."
"I'm glad."
She honestly did enjoy continuing Henry Hardesty's tradition. Besides giving her a chance to contribute something to the family, it gave Joanna an outlet for her own creative abilities. "Your grandfather made it easy. He left instructions and molds and all sorts of wood pieces. I just had to put things together like parts of a puzzle. And, here's the best news. Horace Jessup has agreed to carry the toys in the dry goods emporium, and so did the proprietor of Wallace's General Store in Chesterton."
Clayton carefully smoothed a trail of russet paint down the tail of the rocking horse. "I'd better do a good job, then."
"That's right. You never know who'll be getting that pony."
Joanna walked out of the barn with a light step knowing she would never sell that particular pony. She wouldn't tell Clayton until she was sure, but several times in the last couple of days she had wished she had brought a home pregnancy test with her from 1999. She trusted her instincts, but when she finally told the "doc," she wanted to be absolutely certain.
She went into the house to get ready for her picture, but stopped in the parlor to look at the page in the album where the photo would reside. She would definitely smile, she decided. She didn't care what Victorian rules of photography dictated. If her image was going to face her husband's for years to come, she wanted it to reflect her love for him and her joy in having been brought to his world.
Before going upstairs to the bedroom, Joanna flipped through the other pages in the album as she so often did. She paused when she got to the picture of the Hardesty house with Mary Spenser standing off to the side. "You were right about that May thing, Mary," she said. "I just made it back. They started the permanent bridge the very next day. Seems like you really did have some special powers.''
She started to walk away when something about the picture caught her eye, something she hadn't noticed before. She retrieved the magnifying glass from the end table and held it over the photo of Mary Spenser. At first Joanna gasped in surprise, and then she just smiled. Even the inexplicable sometimes made sense.
She reached for the locket around her neck and cradled it in her palm. There, circling Mary's neck, was the same exact piece of jewelry Evelyn Archer had packed away in her cedar box, the locket Joanna Hardesty wore now.
Joanna put her finger to her lips and pressed a kiss to Mary Spenser's face in the photo. "You did it, and I love you, great-great-great grandmother."
Then she went upstairs to get ready to join the Hardestys in the book that bound them together for eternity.