AUTUMN LOVER 
	BY KATHRYN FOX		
Chapter One
"The pumpkin is like a woman heavy with child. Round, full of promise." Ian caressed the pumpkin's smooth surface with a gnarled and knotted hand. Bushy white brows and a shock of snow-white hair blended to shadow his grin.
Leigh Hunter smiled despite her sour mood. "That's very poetic, Ian, but I'm still not buying a pumpkin for Halloween. It's a silly holiday and downright dangerous."
"Silly? What is silly? Who decides, eh?" His accent was indistinguishable, a mixture of something Old World— Scottish maybe—with a dash of New York. "This is not silly?" He pointed to the forest of skyscrapers that shaded the Manhattan street and the river of people rushing past them.
If anything could look out of place on a Manhattan street, his ragged produce cart did, its wooden sides worn from use and shaded with tattered burlap. Alongside new, gleaming stainless steel vendors' carts, his looked as if it had dropped onto the New York street from another time and place.
"Now celery—this is silly." He waggled a stalk of celery at Leigh, its tiny green leaves flapping like a chicken's wings. "What good is celery? What would life be without silly? Look at people who pass." He waved at the crowd that hurried by. "Look at their faces. So serious." He mocked the intensity that characterized the upwardly mobile.
"Just tomatoes today," Leigh said, smothering a smile.
With a resigned sigh, he replaced the celery and removed the pumpkin from the shelf, carefully placing it in a cushioned crate at his feet.
"You do not need tomatoes," he grumbled as he snapped open a paper bag. "You need imagination, carelessness, impetuousness."
"I have imagination. I'm a television producer. Creativity is my best asset." As she said the words, she wondered why she defended something of which she was so certain. No one else had ascended to the top of the network chain of command as quickly as she. No one else had raised the Neilsen Ratings twenty points over all the network shows. Yet even as she mentally ticked off her assets, the wisp of truth in his words haunted her.
With a wink, he handed her the paper bag. "I'll save the pumpkin just for you." He held up a long, bony finger. "You will change your mind."
Leigh took the bag from his hand, noticing the age spots that dotted his skin. He was one of few constants in her changing world. Every day, rain or shine, he opened his stand and greeted every customer with a smile. Consistency and a kind soul—those traits were often rare commodities in her world.
She felt a twinge of regret as she turned away from his cart and walked toward her tall gray granite office building. The bustle of Manhattan closed in around her, completely absorbing her. But the towering obelisk that was home to Triton Broadcasting, Inc., no longer impressed her, she realized as she looked up at the glass structure, which stretched toward the sky until the morning sun's glare obscured it from view.
The revolving door swallowed her and she emerged into a wall of people. Molly, her office administrator, met her in the lobby, day planner in hand.
"You have nine o'clock coffee with Mr. Umstead." She shoved a dog-eared script into Leigh's hand. "Here's the latest rewrite for Sally, and it's not any better than it was before." Molly peered pointedly over her thick glasses. "I think we should bury this corpse before it starts to stink."
Leigh smiled as she took the script. Molly was efficient and smart, and she minced no words. Thumbing through the document, Leigh noted that comments in the margins had been edited and those edits edited again. She sighed and tucked the package under her arm. "I'll deal with this after coffee. Anything else?"
Molly rolled her eyes and shoved her glasses up on her nose. "Mr. Perfect called and wants to take you to dinner. At least he's willing to feed you. I don't know why you put up with him, Leigh. He's like one of those sweet white chocolate candy bars that aren't good for anything except to induce a sugar coma."
Leigh moved toward the elevator without comment Molly was right. Bryan was about as deep as a birdbath, and they used each other by mutual agreement. No strings, no expectations.
She stepped into the elevator and the door slid shut. As the sensation pooled in the bottom of her stomach, she wondered just when her life had become completely devoid of emotion.
******************
Leigh crept from the bed, padding across the plush carpet and into the bathroom. The Hollywood lights flickered on, and she leaned forward to peer into the mirror and pluck at a stray dark curl that flopped onto her forehead. Bracing both hands on the countertop, she studied her reflection.
When she first came to New York, her eyes had sparkled with life. Now, after eight years of stress and fast living, she looked and felt older than her twenty-eight years. She flipped off the light and tiptoed through the bedroom to the kitchen, glancing once at Bryan's sleeping form beneath her comforter.
In the kitchen, she selected a bagel from a bag in the freezer and popped it into the toaster.
"Hey, Leigh. You want to do this again tonight?" Bryan sauntered into the kitchen, naked. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, as if appearing in her kitchen naked was the most natural thing in the world.
Leigh let her gaze rake over him. Molly was right He was too perfect Blessed with natural blond hair and brilliant blue eyes, he set female hearts atwitter every afternoon in the most popular soap opera on the air.
And she felt. .. nothing. They met almost every night for wonderful sex, but that was all it was—sex in its most elemental form. No endearments, no vows, no future. A simple coupling of two beings for the purpose of pleasure.
Except the pleasure had gone out of it
"I don't think so, Bryan. I have a late meeting with the executive producer and then drinks with a new sponsor. Maybe tomorrow."
He shrugged, turned, and sauntered away with a twitch of his backside. "Your loss," he threw back over his shoulder.
The toaster popped and Leigh snatched her bagel out, took a bite, and walked to the broad window that looked out over Central Park. The trees below were ablaze with fall color. As she studied the palette before her, she picked out, as she did each year, the red maples, flamboyantly waving to her from amidst the common oranges and yellows.
She took another bite and thought of the red maple that had stood in the corner of her yard as a child. It had offered shade in the summer, a place to feed the birds in the winter, twirling seeds to play with in spring, and a brilliant show in the fall.
Memories of long-ago Halloweens flashed through her mind and she closed her eyes, seeing cheesecloth ghosts swinging from the limbs as trick or treaters trudged up the walkway.
"I'll see you on the set later. Okay?" Bryan paused at the door, now dressed, flashing her his perfect smile.
For a brief instant, Leigh entertained the thought that there might be something behind his words, some honest hope of seeing her, but men she slammed that door in her mind shut, remembering that his contract was due for renegotiation next month.
"Yeah. See you there."
He took the doorknob in his hand, then paused. "Are you okay, Leigh? You seem a little down."
She shook her head. "No, I'm fine."
" 'Bye." He disappeared—a little too quickly, she thought.
******************
"I will not alter this storyline." Leigh slammed her palms down on the glossy mahogany table. Uncomfortable looks passed between the man and woman on either side of her.
"Look. We've altered this plot three times since the first of the year. First, Tom and Beth get married. Then, his first wife rises from the dead in a display that Lazarus would envy because Joan Becker throws one of her famous temper tantrums in the exec's office and demands to be written back into the show." Leigh began to pace the room, drowning in the anger seedling within her. Her patience was at an end.
"A few months pass and Joan's off on another one of her pouts and Tom and Beth are back together. A month later, Joan's romance with an Egyptian archaeologist doesn't work out and she's demanding to be written back into the show for the second time. Enough is enough. There's a limit to even these kind of shenanigans on daytime television."
Mr. Corleoni, coproducer of All That Glitters, cleared his throat and toyed with his pen. "Leigh, we all recognize your talent on behalf of this show and acknowledge that you have single-handedly raised the point spread between us and Thunder Bay to a wide margin. But I am sure that by now you realize we are dealing with artists here. Joan Becker is one of the reasons that this show is still on television. The audience loves to hate her."
"She's become impossible to work with. I cannot change the scheduling, change the actors and the production schedule to accommodate her irresponsible lifestyle."
Mr. Corleoni raised his eyebrows and glanced down at his expensive, marble-patterned pen. Some small part of Leigh recognized that she might have crossed an imaginary line, but she'd lost three of her best crew members due to Joan's temper and she wasn't about to lose another.
"Perhaps I should speak to Joan," he said in a voice that carried a hint of a warning.
Leigh reined in her temper and bit back the words she so wanted to say. "Thank you."
"Now," he said, shifting in his seat. "On to the new show. What are your opinions of the new script for Sally?"
"The edits are unacceptable." Leigh opened the script to where spiderwebs of corrections filled every available margin.
Corleoni stared at her. "Michael Dulton made these edits himself. Surely the head writer can satisfy you, Leigh?"
She bristled at the condescending tone of his voice. "No, he hasn't."
"Neither has Bryan apparently." The comment was murmured from the other end of the table. Leigh scanned the faces before her, but each expression was guiltless.
Corleoni glanced around the table, then back at his pen. He stood. "I think we'll all do better work tomorrow when we're fresh. Meeting adjourned."
Chairs glided across the rich plush carpet and Leigh's coworkers filed out of the room in silence.
"Would you please stay for a moment, Leigh?" Corleoni asked as he gathered up his papers.
Leigh sat down and waited for the tongue-lashing she was sure to get. Sally was Mr. Corleoni's pet project—one he was adamant about getting in next fall's lineup. The heavy double doors swung shut, closing them in the enveloping quiet of the room.
He carefully tamped the papers down until they were even; then he laid them in his briefcase.
"You know you've been like a daughter to me, Leigh. I'm speaking now as a friend who cares for you. If something is wrong, you know that you can come to me, off the record."
"I know that, Mike. There's nothing wrong. Honestly, the script is just plain bad."
Mike ruffled the edge of his papers. "You've lost your edge, Leigh. When you first came to work here, you had one of the best instincts in the business. You were a natural for this job. Now, I see you back away from risks. You're afraid to take chances. That's a deadly combination in this business."
A pain started between her eyes and radiated out into her temples and across the top of her head. "I'm just as sharp as I ever was. I'm just tired of Joan's shit. She's run up tens of thousands of dollars in production costs. We've lost the art director and one of the makeup artists. No, I haven't lost my instinct, Mike. My instinct tells me that this is bad business."
Mike's stare was cold and calculating, and Leigh knew that he'd now dropped any personal overtones this conversation had had.
"Joan Becker is one of the best things that ever happened to Triton Broadcasting. She gets whatever she wants. Is that clear, Leigh? A whole handful of production crew members aren't worth one of her shoes. See to it that she's written back into the storyline even if you have to fire all the writers and start all over again."
Leigh stared into his eyes and knew that she'd lost not only an argument, but an ally. "Perfectly clear, Mr. Corleoni."
*    *    *
A cold autumn wind whipped at her skirt as Leigh stepped through the revolving door and into the five o'clock rush. The flow of human bodies swirled her into their midst and carried her along like a leaf in a swift river.
Storefronts were decked out in Halloween decor—everything from plastic skeletons to rubber masks of the latest big-screen ghoul. A group of teens ran by in the opposite direction, plastic masks of Clinton and Monica attached to their faces with slim rubber bands. Leigh calculated mentally and found that Halloween was two days away.
The throng split into two streams as they approached the subway terminal. Leigh glanced at Ian's produce stand. A lit jack-o'-lantern grinned at her from the counter. She veered away from the crowd and moved toward the stand.
He smiled slowly. "You changed your mind about the pumpkin, didn't you?"
She stared into his weathered face. "Yeah, sure. What the hell. I'll carve it and sit it in the window. At ten floors up, maybe a passing pigeon will appreciate it." She shifted her briefcase and rummaged in her purse.
He reached behind the counter and carefully removed the pumpkin from its nest of shredded newspaper.
"How much?"
He shook his head. "No money. I give this to you."
Leigh held out a ten dollar bill. "No, please. Take it."
He shook his head. "No. This is special pumpkin. I bring it just for you. You take and enjoy. It will make you very happy."
Knowing there was no use in arguing, she crammed the bill into her coat pocket and lifted the pumpkin into her arms. "This should be an interesting subway ride. I'll see you in the morning. Do you think you'll have any artichoke hearts?"
He smiled slowly, reminding Leigh of a sly, sleepy cat. Then he reached across the counter and took her hand. Despite his hand's bony structure, his fingers were supple and warm and gentle. "Tomorrow you will not be interested in artichoke hearts. Tomorrow you will be interested only in human hearts."
Chalking up his odd comments to old age, she smiled and nodded and waddled toward the subway entrance, but just before she plunged into the human river again, she turned around. Ian's produce stand was gone, leaving only a whirlwind of autumn leaves.
******************
Leigh juggled her keys in one hand and balanced the pumpkin on her knee. Peering over the edge of the pumpkin, she managed to get her door unlocked and stumble inside. She tossed her briefcase to the chair and set the pumpkin on her kitchen counter.
By pumpkin standards, Ian was right. This one was perfectly round, just the right uniform shade of orange, and free from flat places where it had lain in the field. As a child, she'd accompanied her father to the country to select just the right pumpkin for carving and then worked magic with a knife and a large spoon under her father's careful instructions.
The smooth orange skin begged to be touched. She ran her hand over the ridges and a tingle raced up her arm. She yanked her hand back, puzzled. After all, she reminded herself, she'd had two drinks before heading home. Maybe she should consider herself lucky she was feeling things and not seeing them.
She flopped onto a leather-upholstered chair, raincoat and all, and rubbed her fingers. She had thought about carving the pumpkin into a jack-o'-lantern, despite her declarations of the silliness of it all, but now, she thought she would leave it whole, perhaps add some autumn leaves, and keep it until Thanksgiving.
She struggled out of the overly soft chair and shucked off her raincoat, dropping it over a chair back. Her shoes went next, one under the coffee table and one under the television set. Stocking feet sliding against the carpet, she stepped into the bathroom, turned on the water, and poured a small amount of bubble bath into the tub.
"What the hell?" she muttered, turning the expensive bottle over and pouring half into the filling tub.
She fixed herself another drink—a stiff one—stripped out of her clothes down to her satin underwear, and reveled for a moment in how good it felt to be unfettered. Simple pleasures no longer had a place in her fast world. Pleasures were bought or coerced, she thought jadedly.
Then another unbidden memory rose. She and her sister, about five or six, running in and out of the sprinkler in the backyard, wearing only cotton panties while Mom and Dad laughed and watched.
Clutching the glass, she sat down on the edge of her bed, long-suppressed sadness emerging unexpectedly. The elation of remembering those days was cut short by the remembered pain of losing both parents in an automobile accident when she was fourteen and her sister Karen was twelve.
Shoving herself off the bed, Leigh tried to stem the tide of emotions returning to her heart. She walked down the hall to the bath, slipped off her underwear, and slid into the warm, fragrant water. As the bubbles tickled up her neck, a sudden jarring memory of her sister's death only a few years ago barged into her mind. Karen had died in a breech childbirth—a tragedy that had cost Leigh both her sister and her newborn nephew. Her brother-in-law could never reconcile himself to the loss, so he moved back to California and the loving support of his own family.
Leigh set her glass on the edge of the tub and scooped up a handful of bubbles, blew them away, and watched the trembling rainbows pop and shower her with soapy bits. She and Karen had taken bubble baths, splashing and shrieking until Mom came in and dragged them out.
"Stop it, Leigh," she warned herself out loud.
Leaning her head back against the bath pillow, she directed her thoughts to return to the events of the day, from the conversation with Bryan this morning to this afternoon's fiasco with Mike.
Of all her liaisons with men—and there'd been no shortage of seekers—she'd never entertained the thought of marriage, but now, tonight, her treasured independence just seemed like plain loneliness. Bryan, and all the other perfect male bodies seeking career advancement by romancing the executive producer, had only been toys, bodies to amuse herself with for a few hours, then cast aside. They wanted entanglements no more than she did. Leigh stood and wrapped a towel around herself. She trailed a path of wet footsteps to the kitchen, where the pumpkin sat on the counter. Somehow drawn back to it, Leigh touched it with one finger. A trilling sensation ran up her arm and fanned out across her shoulders and back.
She smiled and touched it again. The sensation wasn't painful or unpleasant, so she ran a hand across its smooth surface. The shock was more intense this time, but still not unpleasant.
Leigh tucked the towel more firmly around her and grasped the pumpkin with both hands. She felt as though every nerve ending in her body had suddenly awakened and begun to transmit messages to her brain. She was aware of everything: of the roughness of the towel against her skin, of the smoothness of the pumpkin, of the beating of her own heart.
The room began to spin. She struggled to remove her hands and found she could not. Fireworks went off in her brain, raining brilliant sparks of light behind her eyelids. Then the world was no more.

Chapter Two
"Oh, my. The poor dear's fainted."
Leigh heard high-pitched voices through the fog in her mind. She struggled to sit up, but strong hands pushed her back down.
"You rest, child. I fear you fainted."
The stilted speech and the illusive scent of lilac swirled around her. "Are you guys EMTs?" She shook her head to clear her vision and stared up into three identical faces that hovered over her. Triplet EMTs? the rational side of her brain asked. And women at that.
"Why no, dear. We're Smiths," said one of the faces.
"Where am I?" She put a hand to her head and found that her hair was now dry.
"The poor dear is delirious," another of the faces whispered with urgency. "She must be ill. You better go get Doc Watson."
A set of feet hurried away, reducing the hovering faces to two. "I'm okay. If I could just sit up." New York must be desperate for emergency medical staff, she mused, because these were the oldest paramedics she'd ever seen. "Never let it be said the Big Apple isn't an equal opportunity employer," she muttered beneath her breath, shaking her head to rid it of the annoying buzzing.
"She's ill," another voice whispered. "Maybe with some dreadful disease. What kind of girls has Miss Eva brought these poor men?"
Leigh blinked and stared up into the canopy of a red maple wearing its best fall foliage, a brilliant blue sky beyond.
"How did I get outside?" She sat up. "Oh, God, the building didn't burn, did it?" she asked, remembering the vibrating electrical sensations touching the pumpkin had produced.
The sight that greeted her defied anything she'd ever seen. She seemed to be in the center of a town square, lying in the grass beneath a tree. Beyond the edge of the spotty grass, horses waited at hitching posts and men with guns and holsters stood on a wooden sidewalk, their arms crossed over their chests, staring at the spectacle she must surely present.
Standing to her side were two old women, white haired and identical down to their peach cotton print dresses that swept the sandy ground and straw hats with bouncing flowers atop.
"Has anyone sent for Miss Eva?" one of the ladies whispered.
"Oh, yes. I sent Tom after her immediately," the other answered.
Leigh clasped her head with both hands. She reached for the towel she'd been wearing to pull it tighter about her. In its place was a very tight cotton dress.
Her fingers traced over the line of buttons leading down the front of the dress and up to her neck. If she could just get these damned buttons undone, she might be able to breathe.
"Dear child, we're here to help you."
Someone shoved something under Leigh's nose, and the scent pierced straight to the center of her brain, making her eyes pour tears. She batted away their hands and twisted her head from side to side.
"Leigh? Are you all right?" A fourth lady hurried toward her across the grass, her long black skirt hitched up in her haste. She dropped to her knees beside her. "I should have known you weren't feeling well on the stage."
"What stage? Hey, are you guys from the Fox Network? Is this some kind of X Files joke? Look. We really don't do that well against you guys Sunday nights."
The woman picked up her hand and patted it with pudgy, soft fingers. Leigh followed the chubby arms to a kind face and a gentle smile. "You're probably overwrought. I've seen it many times with the girls I bring here."
Leigh stared at the woman, her thoughts swimming as she tried to piece together something that made sense. "Who are you and what kind of girls?"
The woman's face spread into a lovely smile. "Why, surely you remember, dear. We've spent three days together on the stage in anticipation of this blessed event."
Leigh withdrew her hand slowly. "Look, lady. I don't know what you're talking about I don't know you and I don't know anything about any blessed event All I want is to know where I am."
"Pardon me, ladies," a masculine voice cut into her next thought. Someone stepped between her and the sun, casting a long shadow across the grass. He knelt down on one knee, touched Leigh's forehead with his fingertips, then began to unbutton the neck of her dress.
"Matthew Sutton! This isn't proper," the trio sang in chorus.
Cool fingers undid the top three buttons and pulled the material away from Leigh's neck. Cool air swept over her skin, and she took a deep breath. Surely, he must be an angel.
"Matthew. This isn't seemly. You can't do this." Miss Eva leaned closer. "You're not married yet," she whispered.
Leigh stopped breathing. Married? She blinked and squinted up at this angel. He was tall and slim. His hands pushed back her hair and pulled at the material at her neck. But the sun blocked her view of his face.
"Miss Eva, there's nothing improper about giving a soul a breath of air," the rich voice drawled. "With all the paraphernalia you girls wear underneath your clothes, it's a wonder half the town isn't stretched out in the maple grove gasping for breath."
"Matthew! You mustn't speak of such things. Whatever has gotten into you?" Miss Eva huffed off a step or two, hastily checking the neckline of her own white blouse.
Then he leaned closer to Leigh and winked. His skin was weathered and tanned. Fine brown hair tumbled over deep brown eyes and carelessly teased the tops of his ears. "I'm Matthew Sutton. I'm sorry we have to finally meet under these conditions."
"Finally meet?" Leigh stared up at him. Did everybody here know something she didn't? "Look, I don't know what's going on here, but I don't like it."
One corner of his mouth twitched slightly and he glanced up at Miss Eva. She solemnly shook her head.
"Leigh dear, this is Mr. Sutton, with whom you've been corresponding for some time." She turned to the Smith sisters. "Is Doc Watson on the way?"
The old lady shook her head. "He's out at the Sims place delivering a baby."
Matthew stared down at Leigh, his eyes full of laughter and mischief. Then he carefully pulled the cotton material back loosely across her neck. "Perhaps she would like to come home with me until she feels better."
Leigh glanced at the women, reading the horror on their faces. If this was a dream, it didn't matter what she did, she reasoned. If this was some altered state of consciousness, some diversion in the flow of time, some . . . mystery that science-fiction writers salivated over, then what the hell? Quickly, she calculated her options. She could stay here with these women in their too starched clothes and too tight viewpoints ... or go with him. Whoever or whatever he was.
You need imagination, carelessness, impetuousness. Ian's words came back to her.
She looked back at Matthew and smiled. "Yes, I would like that very much."
The women's gasps changed the oxygen content of the air around them.
Matthew returned her smile, stood, and scooped Leigh into his arms.
"Oh, dear. Oh, dear," Miss Eva muttered, fanning her now flushed face.
"Miss Eva." He shifted Leigh more securely in his arms, snuggling her closer to his chest. "Miss Leigh and I will be going along now. I don't reckon this is any reflection on you. She's my responsibility from this point on."
"But ... but the wedding isn't for two days. And you don't have a chaperon."
Wedding? Leigh stiffened, but Matthew held her firmly.
"I don't think we'll be needing a chaperon, Miss Eva, I'll have her back at the boardinghouse before dark. A nice carriage ride'll do wonders for her and we can get acquainted."
Miss Eva opened her mouth to protest, but snapped it closed, and Leigh got the impression that not many people interfered with this Matthew Sutton.
He moved away down a dirt street, carrying Leigh as easily as if she were a child. From her new vantage point, she saw more of the town—a picture straight out of a Saturday morning cowboy movie. Heads turned as he carried her across the street toward a wagon hitched to two bay horses.
She risked a glance upward. Dark stubble shadowed an angular face with a firm jaw. The rough blue denim shirt scratched pleasantly against her cheek. Every logical brain cell she had should have been screaming at this moment She should have vaulted straight out of his arms and headed back toward people and safety, but curiosity overrode caution. Perhaps she hadn't lost her instincts after all.
Effortlessly, he placed her up on the wagon seat, then swung around the team, trailing a hand across their necks and faces and murmuring something to each one. The wagon lurched to the side as Matthew climbed up and sat down, then flicked the reins, and they rolled forward. As they passed the square, Miss Eva and the three sisters watched, their mouths agape. A tiny thrill darted through Leigh, a tantalizing sensation of being naughty.
Leigh clutched the hard wooden seat as the wagon moved along at a rollicking gait. On the edge of town, a sign above the sidewalk proclaimed the Aurora Sentinel newspaper was housed there. Leigh turned her head at the huge banner in the newspaper office window announcing a Halloween dance.
Halloween, 1899.
Another wave of weakness swept over her. If this is a dream, she told herself, it's more interesting than most of my dreams.
The landscape quickly changed from neat wooden buildings to flat fields and forests ablaze with autumn colors. Piles of yellow hay lay in the fields and ripe, orange pumpkins lay amid their dying vines, their color in stark contrast to the lingering green of summer's grass. Leigh shivered, remembering her own mysterious pumpkin.
The pumpkin. Realization hit her with a start. She had been touching the pumpkin when the world disappeared. Pieces of jumbled suspicions began to fall into place. Ian and his produce stand had vanished once she accepted the pumpkin he wanted her to have. And when she touched it...
"That's ridiculous, Leigh," she mumbled beneath her breath, mentally discarding such a ludicrous notion. She was just dreaming. A very vivid dream, but a dream nonetheless.
"I beg your pardon?" Matthew sat hunched forward, the reins threaded through his long fingers. He slanted her a quizzical glance from the corner of his eye, then turned his attention back to the road ahead.
"Nothing," she said with a shake of her head.
"You seem very different from your letters."
"Letters?"
He glanced at her again, but didn't meet her eyes. "The letters you wrote me."
"Oh, those."
"You don't seem shy at all."
"I said I was shy?"
"No, but you seemed that way from your letters."
"Well, I'm not."
"I can see that."
They rode on in silence, the horses' hooves making little clopping noises against the hard-packed ground. Leigh scanned the horizon, still clinging to the hope that she would see a camera crew driving across a field.
"This reads like a really bad screenplay," she muttered to herself. Didn't rue reject something like this last week ?
Although Matthew glanced at her quizzically from time to time, they rode on wordlessly, then entered a sparse stand of birch. A two-story white house sat amid the trees, freshly turned flower beds puddling at its base. A porch surrounded the house and elegant gingerbread work coiled into the corners.
"This is my home." He drew the team to a stop and set the brake. "Do you like it?" Pride was evident in his voice, but there was a plaintive expectancy in his eyes.
"It's lovely," she said, and a warm, slow smile spread across his face.
"I painted it last week."
Leigh was about to leap off the seat when she saw him hurrying around to her side. He lifted her free of the wagon and set her on the ground. His hands lingered on her waist for a second, then quickly dropped to his side.
"Come inside." He beckoned toward the house and sidestepped up the walkway, looking back over his shoulder with childish enthusiasm.
The house was indeed freshly painted, every rung of the porch railing carefully trimmed. He opened a screen door, and she walked beneath his arm and into the cool interior of the house. The scent that met her was jarringly familiar.
Home.
Sharp, bittersweet memories surged back, vivid and unexpected, rare recollections of her own childhood, the only idyllic time she could remember.
Rugs were strewn across the floor, and delicate white curtains danced in the morning breeze that poured in through open windows. An afghan was draped across the back of a settee, and a large painted vase of sunflowers sat on the bottom step of the staircase.
Leigh touched the bumpy black center of one of the flowers. Was this his doing?
"You said you liked sunflowers so I planted a whole row of them out back."
He blushed an enticing, embarrassed pink to the edges of his hair. She looked back at the sunflower, touching its velvety petals. How real this all seemed. The idea that this was a dream was rapidly fading and a deeper explanation was taking its place. Had she somehow taken someone else's place in the world? Apparently, a very loved and anticipated someone?
Lucky girl.
"Matthew ..." She turned to confess, no matter that she would sound like even more of an idiot than she felt, but he whipped out a bouquet of autumn wildflowers from behind his back.
"These are for our room." His eyes darkened briefly; then he smiled. "I thought you might like to take them up."
She took the blooms from him, and their hands brushed together beneath the mixture of leaves.
"Ah ... we were supposed to be married by the time you came here so ... I tried to make the bedroom nice for you." He released the flowers and stepped backward.
Panic rippled through Leigh as the pieces fell together in an epiphany. She had somehow dropped into this time as if through a trapdoor, dropped dead into someone else's life. But where was this someone else?
She glanced around frantically, still hoping to find out if this was a joke or a dream or hallucination.
"Leigh?" Matthew's gentle voice brought her gaze to focus on his face. "Are you all right?" His hand caught her arm and drew her toward him. "Perhaps you should sit down," he suggested.
"No. I'm fine," she lied and forced a smile. "Really."
His answering smile was gentle and sincere, and Leigh turned her attention to evaluating him. He was a man unused to elegant words and cunning statements—a man who spoke straight from his heart, lived by simple ideas and simple promises. These things she sensed in him as he stood before her, his heart in his eyes.
For someone else.
"Do you want me to take these?" He tugged gently at the flowers gripped in her hand.
"No. I'd like to take them up." She started up the stairs, eager to be alone for a moment, to try to gather her scattered thoughts. She paused once to look back. He didn't follow, but stood at the bottom of the stairs. With one hand thrown over the banister, he stared up at her.
She stepped up onto a landing that squeaked softly. Her unruly imagination immediately conjured more soft night sounds. Going downstairs for a glass of milk. Padding through the dark to check on a baby.
"You've really lost it," she said through clenched teeth. "You're going Little House on the Prairie here."
Two rooms opened off the landing. She looked back down, but Matthew was no longer watching her. She stepped into the room to the right. A huge four-poster bed sat in the center of the room, a quilt sweeping the floor on either side. Scattered braided rugs protected bare feet from the rough hewn floorboards. Gauzy white curtains admitted the sweet scent of sun-dried, dying leaves.
Someone had meticulously cleaned the room. The faint scent of lemon still lingered in the air. A small dressing table with a mirror sat to one side, a large, cut-glass vase on its delicate top. Leigh arranged the flowers in the vase, pausing to move one or two blossoms, feeling as though she were intruding on something very intimate and private.
She walked to the window and looked down on the yard below. Matthew was leading the horses around the house, soft words drifting up to her, their meaning lost, but their intent evident from his soothing tone. How on earth would she make him understand that she was not his Leigh, that she was an interloper in time, a soul out of place? How could she make him understand when she didn't understand or believe this herself?
She glanced around the room again. This was obviously meant as a bridal chamber—a tenderly orchestrated welcome for the woman who would occupy Matthew's house and his heart. She had to find some way to tell him before things went too far. The thought sent a strange chill racing up her back and along the hairs that curled at the nape of her neck.
The landing creaked softly and Leigh started, then felt a flush heat her cheeks.
"The room is lovely, Matthew." She didn't want to turn and see the unasked question in his eyes, see his eagerness to please this phantom woman whose life she was living.
"The bed is new and the dressing table was my mother's. I . . . thought you might like it."
Leigh turned, hoping that seeing his face might somehow evoke the words she would need to explain this. But his face cleared all explanations from her mind. Want and loneliness were almost tangible in his stare, and a slight flash of panic passed through her. What kind of man would send for a mail-order bride? Was there something wrong with him?
He moved to the window and pointed down below. "I've already turned up the beds for you, and next spring we'll plant flowers all around the house."
Leigh moved to his side, fighting down a willingness to lose herself to this fantasy. How easy it would be to block out all else except this seemingly idyllic moment, to buy into the notion of forever.
"I plan to put roses over there by that bench." He pointed to a small raised bed area, a birdbath in the center. "The birds come there in the evenings."
Again, an explanation sprang to her lips—evidence of a rehearsed life of saying exactly what she meant when she meant it. Quick, curt explanations designed for efficiency, not politeness. But the childlike trust in his face stopped her as he turned again to gaze at her.
"You look just as I imagined you," he said softly. "You said your hair was curly and that you didn't like it." He raised a hand, hesitated, then took a strand of her hair and let it slide through his fingers. "But I do. It's so soft."
The magnetism she had felt before as a slight tug became a reckoning force. Intuition surged into her thoughts, chasing away grim reality and logical reason. His arms would be warm and strong, his chest firm and comforting, some inner voice taunted. And when he pulled her against him it would be with no ulterior motives, no bargains or deals. His love would be a precious gift, given only once.
"Would you like to see the barn?"
When he spoke, she realized she'd been staring at his mouth, wondering what his lips would feel like against hers. "Ah . . . yes. I'd like that very much."
He led the way out of the house and across the yard to a large red bam. Cavernous was the word that came into Leigh's mind as he swung open the huge double doors, and the pungent scent of cows, manure, and hay spilled out
"Ugh," Leigh said, covering her mouth and nose with her hand.
"What's wrong?" His startled expression said she'd just made a fatal error.
"That smell."
Matthew smiled. "That's just the cows and the horses. Didn't your father's barn smell like this?"
Leigh's thoughts raced as she hastened to recover ground. "Of course. It's just that... I guess all at once .. ."
"I guess a weeklong ride on a stage and I wouldn't want to smell any more livestock either."
"Yes, that's right" She checked his face to see if he'd seen through her, but his attention was directed to the stalls to their left.
"Patty's bred and she'll drop a colt anytime now." He stroked the bay's head that jutted over the stall door. "You're my girl, aren't you, Patty?" He scratched behind her ears and the mare answered with an affectionate butt of her head against his chest "She and I cleared the front field, didn't we, girl?"
He moved down the row of stalls and laid a familiar hand on the head of a black-and-white cow.
"Julie—she'll drop a calf about the same time." Large liquid brown eyes blinked once and a huge tongue snaked out and licked her wide pink nose. Matthew turned, his face animated with enthusiasm. "Her stud was the best bull in the area. Old Black Jack over at Tom Simpson's place. He throws a calf every time and most of the time they're heifers."
Leigh tried to look as though she understood every word Matthew said. But her eyes kept wandering to his face, to his eyes, and to his lips, and all the while, she scolded herself for such nonsense.
He continued down the length of the barn, patting the cows and horses and explaining the recent romantic encounters of each one. They went out of the barn to investigate the chickens and, lastly, the one lone mule, Lucy.
When Matthew finished explaining Lucy's parentage, the sun was drowning in an ocean of color, banners of orange and pink painting away the last of the daylight. Leigh felt her eyelids begin to droop and her knees threaten to buckle as fatigue settled in.
"I should get you back to town before Miss Eva sends the sheriff out here looking for you." Matthew put his arm around Leigh's shoulders and pulled her against him.
Leigh roused herself at the mention of Miss Eva. "Back to town?"
"When I saw you lying there in the grass—well, it frightened me." He took her hand and rolled her fingers in his hand. "I saw then that you'd just fainted. But you looked as if you needed rescuing, and I just couldn't wait for you to see the place." He grinned and looked down at his feet. "The only way I got away with bringing you out here was to promise her I'd have you back by dark."
"Uh-huh," Leigh said, fighting off the overwhelming tiredness now claiming her every muscle.
"There's a dance tomorrow night. A Halloween dance. Would you like to go?" He moved in front of her, blocking her path.
Leigh stared up the length of him, finally reaching his face. "I'd love to," she heard herself mumble.
"Wait here," he said when they reached the front porch. "I'll get the team."
Leigh sagged against a porch column, trying to remember when she had ever been so tired. Harness buckles rattled and the team plodded around the side of the house. Matthew helped her onto the seat and, with a flick of the reins, drove them off into the fading sunset.
Chapter Three
The moon was a faint promise in the eastern sky while the last of the sun drowned in a sea of magenta and red. Leigh wrapped her arms around herself for warmth as the increasing chill crept beneath her thin cotton dress.
"I should have thought to bring you a wrap," Matthew said, stretching an arm across her shoulders and drawing her close to him.
Leigh slid against him, grateful for the warmth of his body and too tired to protest. A pleasant soapy scent rose from his shirt as she laid her cheek against the fabric. She jerked awake as they entered town, knowing only then that she'd slept leaning against his shoulder.
He pulled the team to a stop in front of the boarding-house and set the brake. He wasn't off the wagon seat before Miss Eva appeared, a lantern held aloft.
"Thank goodness," she breathed, clasping closed an old thick wrapper. "I was beginning to worry, Leigh dear."  A cloth around her head held in check bits of rags wound into her hair like curlers. They bobbed in the dark like moths.
Matthew helped Leigh down and her knees threatened to buckle as his hands left her waist. "Now, Miss Eva. You don't trust me?"
"Of course I do, Matthew. It's just that her safety was entrusted to me and after today ..."
He took Leigh's hand in his. "I have brought her back to you as pure as when she left." He bowed low and kissed Leigh's fingertips, winking at her as his lips left her skin.
"Come inside, dear. You've had a long day." Miss Eva nudged her toward the open door.
"Wait." Leigh stopped, a hand on either side of the doorframe. Now was the time. Tell him now. You can't let this go on any longer. "I'd like to speak to Matthew a moment please."
Eva frowned. "Leigh, you've had ample time and we are standing out here for all the town to see."
"Please? Only a moment?"
Eva pursed her generous lips and crinkled her brow. "Only a moment." She hustled away with a swish and shut the door all but a tiny crack.
Leigh turned slowly to face Matthew. The dim light softened his features as he watched her with an expectant expression.
"There's so much you don't know about me," she began, desperately searching her soul for words to explain the unexplainable.
"I know that you are kind and that you love the sun and the morning air, as do I." He stepped closer, and his expression sobered. "Love is a simple thing, Leigh." He hovered above her a moment, leaning down, his lips only a breath away. The magnetism that followed him like a second soul enveloped her in its spell. Leigh closed her eyes, anticipating his kiss. A cool wisp of air passed between them, and when she opened her eyes, he had stepped away. "The rest we will find out in two days."
Before she could find an excuse for him to stay, he was gone.
******************
Funny how a few hours could change so much. Matthew padded barefoot across the moonlight-patterned floor and stood by the bedroom window. A cool breeze ruffled his hair and pushed open his unbuttoned shirt. Night was well on its way to dawn and sleep still had not come. He closed his eyes, imagining Leigh again standing in the window, tendrils of her hair swirling around her face on the tiniest of breezes. She'd only been here for a few minutes and already the house was imprinted with her presence.
He ran a hand across the smooth wood of the windowsill. He'd planed and nailed each board of the house himself, cleared every acre of the new land—all in preparation for a bride who had never become his wife. Sweet Mary had died, along with her parents, in a fire that had blazed obscenely against the dark night sky. Since then, he'd thrown himself into his land, clearing, building, toward what goal he hadn't known.
The nights had stretched long and empty, but his work had kept him isolated and alone. Then, Miss Eva had swept into town, bringing with her young women from the East who sought homes and husbands. She'd already made several successful matches with local bachelors, having the uncanny ability to see beneath one's skin and read what was in her heart. So he'd approached her and she'd introduced him, via letter, to Leigh.
From their first correspondence, Leigh's letters had been neatly scripted, her words carefully chosen. She'd seemed kind and intelligent and loyal, and he'd fallen in love—a love as gentle and predictable as each of her letters.
But as their correspondence continued, it seemed that she lacked the passion and curiosity for living that fueled his soul. Every element of nature struck wonder into him. Every blade of grass was a marvel, every birth a miracle. He'd written these things to her—his most intimate thoughts and musings.
Her responses were beautifully worded and carefully agreeable, but she offered no thoughts or observations of her own. If only, he'd wished, she'd disagree with him or offer an intimate glimpse into her soul. Even as he carefully wrote the words asking for her hand, he wished she possessed the same passion as he.
But now, seeing her in person, he sensed in her a quivering energy not evident in her letters, a passion waiting to be discovered. While her letters painted her as shy, she appeared self-confident; while she described herself a simple person, she seemed complex, promising a fascinating journey to discover all that she was.
He slid the window closed against the cold wind, then turned. The bed mocked him with its neatness, giving wing to thoughts that had sprung to life since he'd touched her hand. He ran his hand across the quilt, a gift from his mother just before her death. His eyes drifted closed and he drew a shaky breath, imagining tangled sheets and bare shoulders beneath it. A niggling worry intruded into his thoughts. There was something disturbing about her, some unnamed thing that his mind could neither ignore nor explain ...
He placed a hand on the cold glass. Another day, just two more sunrises, he would be alone, and then he'd be alone no more.
*    *    *
A cold wind swept in the window, reminding Leigh that behind the sweet lethargy of autumn would come the bitter promise of winter. Her chest hurt as she breathed in the bitter wind. Closing her eyes, she searched her mind, trying to remember the last time she'd noticed a cooling breeze. Ensconced in her environmentally controlled apartment, riding in the stifling subway, wheeling and dealing in her stale office—the only time she noticed the weather was walking to or from the subway station a block away. And only then if it was raining.
Another breeze, this time more moderate, caressed her cheek, promising a few more days of autumn. She opened her eyes and stared out across the sleeping town. Moonlight gilded the simple dwellings and no lights shone to rival its beauty. Dawn was only a few hours away.
Wondering where she was and how she'd gotten here had given her a headache, but no answers. She rubbed her throbbing temples, arching her shoulders against the confining cotton fabric of the nightdress she'd found in a bag in the room Miss Eva had identified as hers. Did she no longer own thin, silky nightgowns and delicate underthings? Did she even own her soul? She fingered the smooth cotton. Would the sensation of touch be so real in a dream?
She moved to the dressing table, peered into the mirror, then reeled with surprise. Who was this person staring back at her? She leaned closer. She didn't look the same. Her hair was dark and curly, teasing her face with tiny errant wisps, where before it had been brown and straight. Now her face was oval and very pretty with long lashes and a delicate mouth. Before she'd looked . . . Well, she'd been no glamorous model, but she'd been presentable, sophisticated, very nineties.
She pulled the nightgown over her head and stood naked, staring at herself. Her body was curvy, voluptuous, a little heavy by modern standards, where before she'd been a greyhound, lean and sleek, narrow hips and shoulders, small breasts.
"Well, I might get to like this," she said with a chuckle. After all, this was a dream, wasn't it?
Remembering the satchel, she pulled the nightgown back over her head and turned up the lamp she'd left burning low, fearing she could never light it again. She sat down on the bed and pulled the tattered bag to her. It contained an ordinary assortment of things: stockings, a blouse, a long dark skirt . .. and a wedding dress. She lifted the lacy garment out of the bag and held it against her. The neck was high and edged in lace. More lace fell from the shoulders as an overlay to underfabric drawn in tightly at the waist. The skirt fell to the floor in a lacy flow.
"It's beautiful," she breathed. She had no recollection at all of buying it.
Laying the dress aside, she lifted out a parcel of letters bound together with a delicate pink ribbon. Flowing script arched across the front of the envelopes. Miss Leigh Hunter. In the upper corner was M. Sutton.
She opened the packet, then paused. Was she delving into something she shouldn't? These didn't feel like her things or her letters. She glanced down at the stack in her lap and selected one.
May 3, 1899 
My dearest Leigh,
Leigh ran a finger over the dried ink. Dearest. Again she had the eerie sensation of having crawled into someone else's skin.
/ wish you could see the morning dew on the field from my window. The sun is peeking over the horizon and every blade of grass is aquiver with life as the first rays of light turn the droplets into diamonds. Do you suppose God grants us the beauty of dawn to ready us for what the day will hold—a promise to sustain us through any ill that will befall us? Or do you think that the world simply turns on its axis, oblivious to the simple thoughts and hopes of man?
The beauty and the intimacy of the thought he chose to share stunned her. Who was this Matthew Sutton—a philosopher or a dirt farmer? And where was this other Leigh if she was here in her place? Guiltily, she returned to the letter.
/ think of you all through the day. Each time I see a bird wing across my field, I marvel at the idea of flight and wish you were here so I might share it with you. Each time the wind blows through my hair, I imagine you at my side, the wind caressing your cheek as I so long to do. I am counting down the months until October when my wishes will come true.
She opened another letter. It too was filled with thoughts so intimate she blushed as she read them. If only she could know what this Leigh had answered. Was she as enamored of Matthew as he was of her? On and on she read, letter after letter, each one cataloging his thoughts and his hopes for happiness, long life, children.
He had lost someone once, he wrote, a woman destined to be his bride. His sorrow had been deep and lasting, and then he had met Leigh, though only by letter.
You represent my life rising from the ashes, as the phoenix did. You are my rebirth and my future.
Leigh dropped the letters and rose to cross to the window. She stared out at the horizon, where dawn was a pink shadow encroaching on the night. Her headache returned with full force as she desperately searched her mind for some recollection, some hint, as to where she was, how she'd gotten here, how she could not remember a love like this. Her former life—as she was beginning to think if it—seemed more and more like the dream and this the reality. Things were so real here, she thought, running a finger across the rough wood and then the smooth, cold glass of the window. People, too. She remembered Matthew's expression there with her in the twilight—the want in his eyes, the love. She couldn't remember ever seeing emotion so stark and raw in any of her lovers. Lust, maybe, but not true emotion. That was kept behind a carefully constructed mask of noncommitment. She herself wore such a mask.
Matthew's poignantly penned words haunted her. She felt as if she had peeped through a keyhole, as if she had seen into his mind without his knowledge. She knew intimate secrets he had told no other living soul, entrusted to no one except the woman he loved. Did she deserve such trust? Was she worthy to take on this privileged woman's identity?
And what if she had slipped into someone else's skin, taken someone's place in time? What was it Sherlock Holmes had said? When everything else has been eliminated, what remains must be the truth? Well, then, she had traveled in time or between planes of existence, or she'd made some other transfer she didn't begin to fathom. She was living an honest-to-goodness science-fiction story. And there was no way home. No magic portal to step through. No magical red slippers to click together.
Was this other soul back in New York, living her life? .And what of her name? Could she have moved through time and still be Leigh Hunter? She smiled to the darkness, imagining Bryan's surprise when he tried one of his kinkier bedtime antics on some prim miss from 1899.
She returned to the bed and searched farther into the bag, finding a small leather book carefully tied closed with more ribbon. Eagerly, she opened it, turned to a page dated May 3, 1899 and began to read.
Received letter from Matthew today. He seems anxious for the wedding day.
“Anxious? The man's pouring his heart out here.'' Leigh turned the page.
Purchased eleven yards of lace for wedding dress and twelve yards of silk. Material should arrive three months before wedding. Matthew mentioned wind. I should see to purchasing a variety of hats.
"Is that all she got out of his letter?" She read on, each passage as flat as the next. Not once was there a mention of her love for him, her hopes for their life together, no secret thoughts about their wedding night. 
The last entry was dated October 28, 1899.
/ am writing this from the stage en route to Aurora, so that accounts for the unevenness of the lines. I do hope that Matthew is pleasant and is not expecting too much of me. I fear from his letters that he is a passionate man, and never having met face to face, I cannot judge the depth of his "secret side," as Mother terms it. Autumn is a dreadful time for « wedding and I am trying to keep up my spirits.
How horrible to live life so passionlessly, to neither see nor feel what was before one, Leigh thought. Then she realized with a jolt that that was exactly the way she had lived these past two years. Plunging ahead, meeting life on its own grounds, yet never seeing nor acknowledging the small things that made up the big picture.
Leigh closed the book, but held it in her lap. Was she dreaming in terms of Charles Dickens? A sort of Christmas Carol experience brought on by too much alcohol and sushi and too little peaceful slumber? No, some small voice whispered, and she knew deep in her soul that she had been given a gift, that she was about to step across a threshold into the rest of her life.
******************
"Good morning," a singsong voice chanted, boring into Leigh's confused dreams. She jammed a pillow over her head, but someone pulled it away and plopped something on her bedside table with a clatter.
"Rise and shine, sleepyhead."
Leigh raised her head and looked straight into Miss Eva's smiling face.
"You can't sleep away your last day of freedom." Miss Eva snatched away the pillow, gave it a furious fluffing, then wedged it behind Leigh's back as she turned over.
"You didn't have anything to eat last evening and you have to keep those roses in your cheeks."
Despite her annoying fussing, Leigh sensed nothing but compassion from the slightly rotund Miss Eva.
"I brought some toast and jelly and oatmeal." She plopped the tray onto Leigh's lap and whipped off the dishtowel covering it with the aplomb of the best New York maitre d'.
Eva's face was expectant, filled with barely contained excitement, as if pleasing Leigh was the most important thing in the world at this moment. Leigh smiled despite herself.
"It's lovely, Miss Eva."
"Now you eat your meal and we'll go shopping and get vou acquainted with your new neighbors." 
Leigh picked up the spoon and dipped it into the oatmeal. She grimaced as she put the spoonful in her mouth. She'd always hated the thick gray slime. But to her surprise, it was creamy and smooth with a hint of cinnamon and brown sugar.
"This is very good," Leigh said, dipping up another mouthful.
“Of course it is.'' Miss Eva unfolded a brilliant blue dress and hung it in the armoire. "It's my own special recipe. I fix it for all my girls."
"Uh-huh," Leigh replied, noting that Miss Eva was now hanging up a brown sprigged calico dress. These clothes hadn't been in the satchel from last night.
Dipping another spoonful, Leigh leaned to the side, as inconspicuously as possible, to see around the end of the bed. A huge steamer trunk sat on the floor, overflowing with a rainbow of fabric.
She glanced back at Miss Eva, now humming to herself as she smoothed and straightened dresses.
"Boy, this chick must have been some clotheshorse," she mumbled.
"What did you say, dear?" Eva turned from the armoire.
"I said I certainly have a lot of clothes." Leigh spooned up more oatmeal and tried to smile innocently.
"Indeed you do. Your father, God rest his soul, provided well for you.
Another valuable piece of information. She entered it into her mental list. No father.
"So tragic to lose both parents like that."
Another piece to the puzzle. No mother either. That would explain why she was now a mail-order bride, she thought sarcastically.
She watched the endless parade of dresses, with their high necklines and tight bodices, and wondered if her new body would fit into any of them.
"Now." Eva smoothed the last dress and then stuffed it into the bulging armoire. "Finish your breakfast and we'll be off." Her voice rose on the last word—lilting, piercing, and all together annoying—but her eyes were sincere.
"Wait," Leigh called as Eva bustled toward the door. "Are there other . . . girls here?" There, she'd asked the dreaded question. Just what kind of "girls" did Miss Eva deal in?
Miss Eva knitted her eyebrows together. "Oh, no, dear. Don't you remember? It was just you and I on the stage. Are you still not feeling well? You shouldn't have gone roaming around last night. You should have been here in bed. Oh dear, oh dear."
She bustled over, genuine concern spreading across her broad face, and clamped a hand on Leigh's forehead. "You don't seem to have a fever."
"I'm fine. I just meant . . . were we joining any other girls here?" The recovery was stitched together from bits and pieces of tangled information, but seemed to be effective as Eva's concern melted away.
"No, dear. You're my only little chick. I'll be back to collect you in an hour," she flung over her shoulder as she hurried out of the room, closing the door behind her.
Leigh set aside the tray and again crossed to the mirror. She turned to the side and pulled the nightgown tight around her. She'd gained at least a cup size and one or two inches in the hips, just enough to give her the hourglass figure she'd always envied.
"Maybe going crazy isn't so bad after all," she said to the stranger in the mirror.
******************
Leigh stared into the storefronts she passed, each one a picture out of a history book. They passed the general merchandise store with horse collars and fresh apples, the hotel with its name painted in baroque script on the front glass, and a lady's dress store boasting the most torturous garments imaginable.
"Leigh dear, I saw the most wonderful thing in here." Eva caught her by the hand and dragged her into the small shop.
Dress forms modeled the owner's latest creations, yards and yards of material gathered and tucked and bustled. Heavy was the word that sprang to Leigh's mind.
"Esmerelda?" Eva called.
A tiny woman emerged from behind a curtain, a tape measure draped around her neck. A pencil jabbed through the light brown bun atop her head and pins crisscrossed the front of her dress.
"Esmerelda, this is Leigh Hunter." Eva hauled Leigh out from behind her and thrust her forward. "She'd like to see that item I was admiring yesterday."
The little dressmaker raised her eyebrows and smiled. A little too slyly, Leigh observed. Esmerelda wove through the crowded shop, then stepped behind a counter topped with delicate laces and filmy material. She rummaged around under the counter, then produced a silky white garment—the tiniest of laces adorning the neck and the most delicate of rosebuds stitched into the neckline.
"It's beautiful," Leigh said, fingering the soft fabric. "What is it?"
Esmerelda cast an incredulous glance at Eva and Leigh knew she'd done something else wrong. "Why, it's a nightgown, dear. A very special nightgown," she said with excruciating patience.
"Yes, special," Leigh repeated, her mind whirring. Obviously Eva thought she needed this. For Matthew of course.
"I think you should buy it," Eva said without preamble and with a none-too-gentle nudge of her elbow.
"Oh, I don't know." Where on earth would she get the money for this—Or for anything else? The thought crashed over her. She had no money and no means of obtaining any.
"Here." Eva thrust a pouch into her hand. "This is the money you sent me to hold for you. As your advisor in the ways of love"—Eva waggled her eyebrows knowingly— "you need this nightgown."
As if I couldn't seduce him on my own, Leigh thought. She glanced back at the gown. Well, it was beautiful and she was dreaming.
"All right, I'll take it. How much?"
"Two seventy-five."
Leigh opened the pouch and poured the coins out into her hand. They were twenty dollar gold pieces, according to the mint mark. She counted out fourteen and plunked them onto the counter. Esmerelda stared openmouthed at her.
"That's two dollars and seventy-five cents, Leigh," Miss Eva said, whisking the extra money away and depositing it back into the bag. "Bride's jitters," she said to Esmerelda, who nodded dumbly, then closed her mouth.
Esmerelda carefully wrapped the garment in brown paper, all the while sneaking glances at Leigh from beneath her lashes. When Esmerelda handed Leigh the package, Eva took her elbow and led her out of the shop.
"My dear, have you never been shopping before?" Eva asked when they were outside.
Leigh stared at Eva, trying to come up with some explanation that would work, something that only sounded half as incredible as the truth. Two hundred and seventy five dollars was a steal for a custom-made negligee, she wanted to say, but instead said, "Not often."
Eva took her elbow. "Then I make it my duty to acquaint you with the fine art."
******************
An hour later, Leigh emerged from the general store, packages stacked to her chin. Eva had overseen the purchase of new linens for her new home, new clothes to wear with her new husband, and new kitchen utensils for the food she could not cook.
"Leigh dear. I'll just take those packages for you." Eva hefted the load into her ample arms. "I have an appointment with Mr. Edgar Thornton back at the hotel and I'll take these back for you. I believe that he and Miss Susan Jones would make a fine couple and I've asked him to come for his interview today. It's such a nice morning, I thought you might like to look around our little town."
Eva turned and headed off down the sidewalk, her head bobbing from side to side as she struggled to see over the load in her arms.
Leigh turned full circle, taking in all of Main Street. After all, she was surely due to wake any second, and she wanted to remember this strange and vivid dream. Down at the end of the street, a small crowd had gathered, and Leigh headed in their direction. When she arrived, a woman carrying a basket of corn pushed past her. A man carried three ripe tomatoes. Suddenly craving fresh vegetables, Leigh waited her turn until the crowd ahead of her thinned out.
The produce stand was of weathered wood and a cheerful sign proclaimed that someone named Wooten sold the best produce in town. A good feat when autumn had long since stricken down vegetable gardens with a frosty hand.
When the crowd ahead of her cleared, Leigh saw a small man behind the counter. He was in animated conversation with a customer. He waggled a heart of celery and said. "Now celery is silly. Who needs celery?"
Déjà vu slammed into Leigh, staggering her for a moment. A woman frowned at her as she stepped backward unexpectedly. Regaining her balance quickly, Leigh pushed through the last people and shoved her way to the front, despite the grumbling that followed her.
Ian.
He looked exactly the same as when she'd last seen him grinning at her on a dirty Manhattan street.
"What the hell is going on?" she growled at him.
The smile reached his lips before he turned his attention to her. When their eyes met, he smiled more broadly and reached across the counter to take her hands in his small, gnarled ones.
"Now, child, we will set things right."
Chapter Four
"Sometimes the soul is lost. It takes a wrong turn and ends up someplace it should not be," Ian said.
"A soul is not a rental car. It does not take a wrong turn," she forced out from between clenched teeth. "You are part of a bad dream. I will wake up soon and you and your crazy notions will be gone." She snatched her hands out of his grip.
He smiled serenely, her anger lost on him. "You were not meant for the twentieth century, Leigh. You belong here with Matthew."
"And what exactly is your role in all this?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "I correct mistakes," he answered simply.
...…"How do I get back? I want to go home."
"You are home." He leaned forward and gently took her hands again. "You were not meant for the other time. Your future was not there, your happiness was not there.  You were meant for here. Unfortunately, I do not have the power to turn back the pages of time to undo the pain you have suffered.'' His smile was angelic and mesmerizing. "But I can promise you much happiness here."
She was about to yank her hands away again and demand once more an explanation that didn't sound like a bad episode of The Twilight Zone when a hand touched her shoulder.
"Leigh," Matthew's gentle voice said in her ear.
She turned toward him, startled.
His eyes searched her face, his brows knitted together in consternation. "Is anything the matter?"
"No, I was just talking to .. ." She turned back to the vegetable stand and found it deserted. Ragged sheets of canvas twisted in the wind, unused and old. Dust covered the narrow ledge where moments before cucumbers and tomatoes had rested.
"He was just..." Robbed of words, she waved an ineffective hand toward the old stand.
"A family named Wooten once ran this business, but they moved away years ago," he said gently.
Leigh looked up at him, confusion numbing her mind. He brushed back a lock of her hair. "I came into town to remind you about the Halloween dance tonight." He took her hand and together they walked down the street.
"Matthew?"
"Yes?"
"Do you think you can dream while you're dreaming?"
He chuckled, a warm throaty sound. "I don't know. Do you dream that way?"
Leigh shrugged. "I guess I do." She was dreaming right now, she wanted to say, but his touch felt very real, warm, and right, and Ian's words swam through her thoughts.
		*	*	*	
Lanterns bobbed in the trees and children clad in homemade Halloween costumes chased one another. A wooden dance floor had been laid and ropes festooned with more lanterns were strung across it. A few adults wore costumes, but most left the pretending to the children.
Matthew handed Leigh down from the wagon. He was dressed in clean denim pants and a white shirt. Leigh straightened the skirt of the brown calico dress and wished for a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.
Three witches clustered together on the other side of the dance floor and Leigh immediately recognized the Smith sisters. They waved and smiled, then turned in unison and shook their long black capes at a group of children, who ran shrieking in mock terror.
Miss Eva hovered around the edge, a nervous-looking man following in her wake.
"That's Edgar Thornton. Miss Eva's working on a match for him, too," Matthew whispered in Leigh's ear. His breath ruffled the tiny hairs just above her ear, sending a shiver down her back.
"And that"—he pointed to a pale-faced young woman holding a voluminous hat in her hands—"is Miss Susan Jones. The most famous spinster in Collins County."
"She's so young. Why would anyone call her a spinster?" Leigh asked.
"She's not so young. She's almost twenty-five."
Leigh caught her breath. Did he know that she was almost thirty? So what did that make her? Ancient?
"Is she Miss Eva's next target?" Leigh whispered back.
"A repeat target," he answered, leaning even closer.
"Repeat?"
"Miss Eva has an enviable matchmaking record. Miss Jones is her only failure. Seems she's hard to please."
“Maybe it's because she's so old," Leigh answered sarcastically.
"Probably so," he answered with sincerity, missing her meaning.
Ian's words came back again, haunting her the way the tiny ghosts and goblins haunted the birch grove just beyond the circle of light. He'd said he couldn't turn back time, couldn't erase the sorrow living out of her intended time had caused her. So how many years did she have left if she stayed here?
If she was here.
If this was real.
Women did not live long past their fifties in this time, she thought, remembering some worthless bit of minutiae stored deep in her memory.
The sharp sound of a fiddle being tuned stopped her thoughts. Other instruments joined in, then jolted off into a poignant waltz.
"May I have this dance?" Matthew whispered into her ear and took her hand in his warm fingers.
Leigh nodded and stepped up onto the wooden floor. Matthew took her into his arms, one arm snugged around her back, the other hand holding her hand. He moved onto the floor gracefully, swirling her with him as if they'd danced together all their lives. She relaxed and let the music move through her, willing her feet to move of their own accord. Faces passed them in a collage of color and expressions.
"You dance very well for someone who's never danced before," he murmured close to her ear. She looked up, puzzled, then remembered that this was probably some bit of information he and his love had exchanged in their letters.
He smiled wider and pulled her closer, executing an elegant turn that swirled the skirt of her dress around her. Onlookers clapped and she realized they had the whole floor to themselves. With a sigh, she abandoned her doubts and slipped wholeheartedly into her role. She'd either wake from her dream soon or die of old age.
Dusk matured into night and the lanterns cast cheery circles of soft yellow light. Suit coats and ties were abandoned as raucous reels made the musicians fiddle for their lives, beads of sweat glistening on their brows.
Leigh spun around the circle of dancers until the faces melded into a blur. The dance ended as she whirled back into Matthew's arms.
"Let's give the band a break," he said and led her over to a crystal punch bowl filled with a bright red liquid. "May I get you a drink?" he asked, reaching for a crystal cup.
"Yes, please," she answered, loosening the top buttons of her dress.
His hand paused, the glass ladle inches above the punch. His eyes glanced at her throat, then back up to her face.
Leigh flushed to the roots of her hair, both with anger and embarrassment. She'd never learn the mores of this society. She buttoned her dress back up.
Matthew handed her a cup and took one for himself, quickly draining the liquid.
"Would you like to walk? Away from the heat here, I mean?" he asked with a sideways glance.
Leigh nodded and put the cup on the table. They stood beneath the halo of lantern light. Overhead, high, thin clouds scuttled across the full moon's face, stippling the earth with shadows and silvery moonlight, fittingly mysterious for the eve of Halloween. They walked side by side, not touching, down a lane overhung by trees.
"Look there." Matthew suddenly pointed to a tree and left the path, motioning for Leigh to follow. He stepped up to a tree and reached up where a glob of green reflected the feeble light when a cloud released the moon.
"A luna moth," he said, bumping the green glow, which wobbled farther up the tree trunk. "They're a beautiful vivid green with dark brown spots that look like eyes on the ends of their wings. Fools critters who want to eat it" He touched the insect again and it obligingly climbed onto his finger.
Leigh recoiled. The only good bug was a dead bug was her motto. But he held the creature with such reverence, his face solemn and delighted at the same time. "See?" He held it closer and she did indeed see the dark spots that looked exactly like huge eyes.
He carefully placed his hand back against the tree, and the moth stepped off his fingers and resumed its position on the bark.
"Why are you so interested in things like moths, cows, and grass?" she asked as they moved back out into the moonlit lane, but the words sounded condescending and patronizing.
He frowned for a moment as if worrying a thought; then he smiled and shrugged. "All the tilings God gives us in nature we can never lose."
"What?" Leigh stopped and stared up at him.
"No one can ever take away the sunrise except God. No one can take away the sunset or the sound of frogs before it rains or the locust songs of late summer. All these things are gifts to us."
His deeply private words, penned to another, came to Leigh's mind. That was what he had been trying to say to her. From anyone else, the thoughts would have sounded like some New Age babble, but she knew that he meant them, that the thought was as deeply embedded in him as his eye color or the shape of his lips.
"I think of you at dawn."
The words caught her by surprise, so engrossed was she in her thoughts. "At dawn?"
He stepped closer. "The earth is soft and still, soothed by the night, like a lover would soothe."
Alarm bells clanged in her head. Intimacy warning, the internal voices screamed.
"And the grass is beaded with dew, waiting for the sun to come and wipe it away."
He moved closer still until his breath stirred her hair.
"Then a gentle fog blankets everything, soft, damp, skimming over the ground, its touch light and caressing."
The blood was thumping in Leigh's ears, her heart racing. Desire and arousal poured into her veins while her brain frowned in confusion. He's talking about grass and fog for God's sake.
His arms slid around her and drew her close. "I dreamed of seeing these things with you, showing you the beauty of the world as I see it. I read your letters, then read them again and again"—he bent lower—"and dreamed of doing this."
He kissed her, his mouth gentle, yet demanding. Leigh's body bypassed all thought and responded with simple instinct. She clasped him to her, pulling him tight within her embrace, urging him to kiss her deeper and deeper.
It was Matthew who pulled away first. He let her go, turned away, and paced a short distance from her. His shoulders moved up and down as if he had just run a distance.
"Matthew?" she asked, wondering if she'd again overstepped some boundary. But part of her knew why he'd turned away. She was as aroused as he.
"I'm sorry, Leigh. I got . . . carried away." He put his hands on his hips and tilted his head back to look up at the moon. "We'll blame it on the full moon and Halloween."
Leigh went to him and smoothed her hands across his shoulders and down his back.
"Please don't," he said in a tight voice.
Leigh dropped her hands to her sides. "I'm sorry."
He turned to face her. "You have nothing to be sorry for. I kissed you."
"Oh, no. I was in on that, too. Believe me." She moved toward him, something inside her painfully longing to touch him again.
He moved back one step, just enough to put him out of her reach. "We should get back to the dance, or else we'll have tongues wagging."
Bowing to the mores of the times, Leigh walked by his side, again not touching him, back to the thin strains of a reel. And just for this time, she was grateful for the restraints of 1899 society. For with a full moon and Matthew Sutton in her arms, only the goblins could judge what might have happened otherwise.
They returned to the dance, but the innocence of the event was lost. Matthew stood at her side, his hand occasionally brushing her fingers, making her arm tingle all the way to her shoulder. He was very careful not to touch her too familiarly. The whole orchestrated event now grated on Leigh's last nerve. She was suffering from a bad case of lust brought on by a discussion of fog and grass.
Her tautly stretched nerves silently applauded when the final notes died away and the musicians rose to place their instruments in cases.
"Well, I will see you two tomorrow morning," Miss Eva crooned.
For a moment, Leigh could not focus on her question; then she remembered. She was to be married tomorrow. Wed. Hitched. Permanently attached to Matthew.
What if I wake up before the wedding?  With a jolt, she realized the change in herself. She was, for the first time in years. looking to the future, be it dreamed or real.
“Yes. At eleven o'clock," Matthew was saying with a quick squeeze to Leigh's fingers.
"You two are my crowning achievement." Eva clasped her hands together and tears filled her eyes.
Matthew glanced down at Leigh briefly. "Yes. I think so. too."
Eva hurried off after Edgar Thornton, who trudged ahead alone, apparently another hash mark on Susan Jones's tally of unacceptable suitors.
With their hands joined, Leigh and Matthew walked back to the hotel, treading the path of moonlight that powdered the ground ahead of them. Neither spoke and Leigh wondered if Matthew's thoughts were on tomorrow or tomorrow night.
"Well," he said as she stepped up onto the hotel porch. "I'll see you at the church in the morning."
"Matthew." She paused, searching for the right words. "Are you sure you want to do this? I mean, if you don't . . . I'm giving you an out."
He tipped his head and smiled. "An out? An odd term. Of course I'm sure." Before she could brace herself emotionally, he had gathered her into his arms. “You are breath and light to me now, Leigh, as necessary as both. I've waited a long time for you, as I hope you have for me, and a longer time for tomorrow."
Then he kissed her again and Leigh knew she was in trouble.
Lust she could deal with. 
Love she could not.
******************
"Do you, Matthew, take Leigh here as your lawful wedded wife?"
Matthew turned, a soft smile playing across his lips. "I do," he said in his soft timbre, his voice barely above a whisper.
Leigh waited for her vows, her hands shaking beneath the small bouquet of wildflowers she grasped. For the thousandth time, she wondered at the headlong plunge she was about to take and for the ten thousandth time she turned Ian's words over in her mind. Was this where she truly belonged at this moment in time? Of all the places she could be in creation, was she meant to be here? Now?
"And do you, Leigh, take Matthew here as your husband?"
She stared up into his face, so open and trusting, and a thousand doubts chased by demons of guilt raced through her. A tear slipped down her cheek and she saw his brows knot together briefly. "I do," she whispered.
"Beg pardon?" The minister leaned forward, a moment of panic flickering across his face.
Leigh cleared her throat. "I do."
He leaned back, a broad smile of relief on his face. "You got the ring, Matthew?"
Matthew searched the pocket of his coat and produced a tiny gold band. He grasped Leigh's hand and slowly slid the cold metal onto her finger. "With this ring, I thee wed," he whispered, needing no prodding from the minister.
"Well, then, by the power vested in me by the state of Colorado, I pronounce you man and wife. Kiss her, Matthew boy."
Matthew lifted the thin sheet of lace that covered Leigh's face and kissed her, his touch sweet and shy, but promising more.
The squeaky organ groaned out something akin to the recessional, and Leigh felt Matthew take her arm and gently turn her to face the congregation. A sea of expectant, happy faces grinned at her as she took a step forward, then two, Matthew's hip against hers, his grip on her arm firm, as if he knew her knees were banging together like cymbals.
Together, they navigated the narrow aisle and out into the welcome autumn sunshine. A cold breeze sailed around the corner of the small white church, lifting the lace of her dress and threatening the contents of the white cloth-covered tables set up underneath the small grove of trees, where last night goblins had cavorted.
Matthew smiled down, happiness sparkling in his eyes. He bent closer and kissed Leigh again, his lips grazing hers like the brush of a butterfly's wing.
Struggling to put together two words, she waited for him to say something. But he only squeezed her hand and turned to greet the crowd that was just now catching up with them.
Countless people smiled at her and wished her good luck, some of them squeezing her hand and reminding her that she was now responsible for a favorite son. The wind stopped and the sun shone brightly, almost as if it were gracing them with the last of summer.
She sampled home-cooked dishes, prepared with love and carefully brought in precious china. Children clamored to touch her. Matthew never left her side, a hand always around her waist or on her shoulder, fingers sometimes entwined with hers deep in the folds of her gown.
A constant presence.
To have and to hold from this day forward.
"I've never seen a lovelier wedding, and I've seen many of them." Miss Eva's tearful greeting pulled Leigh back down to earth.
"I've arranged many a match, but never have I seen a love match such as this." She dabbed her eyes with an ornate silk handkerchief. "You are a very lucky girl. You know, not all of my matches are so perfectly suited as you two."
Matthew's fingers found Leigh's, and he pressed his palm against her palm, an intentional intimacy that shot through her like an electrical charge. "Thank you, Miss Eva," he said when Leigh's mind suddenly went blank.
"You are a beautiful bride," the three Smith sisters chimed in unison, wearing identical dresses. "Is that your mother's dress?"
Leigh stared down at the dress, panic rifling through her. Then she remembered the diary. "No. No, I had it made ... at home." She had no idea where she was supposed to have come from.
"It is lovely, child. And you, young man, are quite the sight." All three sisters plucked at his tie as if he were a child, and Leigh drew a sigh of relief, but the panic stayed. She could never pull this off. She had almost no information about this Leigh Hunter except what was penned in the diary. What if someone knew her? What if someone started asking questions?
They danced on the same wooden floor that had been laid for last night's goblin party. The same band played the same tunes, yet nobody seemed to notice. The decorations had changed though, from ghosts and pumpkins to flowers and white ribbons.
Matthew held her closer than last night, swirled her around, ignoring the good-natured catcalls from his neighbors, openly in love with the woman in his arms. Leigh lent herself to the task, threw away her doubts and fears for these brief hours, and pretended that she was truly, heart and soul, Mrs. Matthew Sutton.
"We should be going," he said as the last notes of a reel died and she stilled in his arms. Happy abandon slipped away, reality sinking into its place. Afternoon was drowning in the purple of evening, bringing with it a prophetic chill.
She listened numbly as Matthew thanked their guests and announced their departure. Gentle jests and good wishes followed them to Matthew's wagon.
They left the cheerful light and moved into the shadows, where the team waited with heads bowed. Matthew lifted her into his arms, pausing for a moment before placing her on the hard board seat. He climbed up beside her and flicked the reins; then they moved away from the church and into the silvery night.
As the last strains of music faded behind them, the vast-ness of the moonlight-drenched landscape encircled them, making their shared board seat seem intimate.
Disturbed only by the occasional jingle of harness and the constant clop of hooves, the quiet night seemed more frightening than any subway ride she'd ever taken. She felt vulnerable, tiny, beneath the canopy of stars overhead— an insignificant soul in the grand scheme of things. Yet she knew from Matthew's letters that she now represented the very core of this man's world. Suffocating guilt settled onto her shoulders.
"Deep thoughts?" he asked, glancing sidelong at her.
"Just a few butterflies."
He stared straight ahead over the horse's back, seeming to have returned to his own thoughts.
They turned into the lane leading to his house. White ribbons were tied to the trees that lined the lane and to the porch columns. He stopped the team and set the brake with his foot.
"Welcome home, Mrs. Matthew Sutton." The words were said lightly, but his eyes were dark and serious.
He climbed down and held up his arms. Gathering her skirt into one hand, Leigh allowed him to lift her into his arms. He shifted her against his chest and, instead of setting her down, climbed the steps to the porch, shoved open the door with one foot, and carried her into the cool interior.
The dark material of his suit scratched against her cheek and her heart pounded. She expected him to carry her straight upstairs, having steeled herself against the inevitable. He'd probably never been with a woman and must be eager.
Instead, he stood her gently on her feet and backed a step away.
"I have to see to the team. I'll be back in a few minutes." He turned to go, then paused and looked back over his shoulder. "I left some milk in the cooler and there's cake in the kitchen." He smiled. "Welcome home."
The door banged behind him, and through the screen, she watched him take the steps two at a time. Soft, unintelligible words came back to her as he grasped the bridle of the nearest horse and led them around the house.
She dropped her wilted bouquet on a small table and wandered into the kitchen. A neatly iced chocolate cake sat in the center of the table, obviously the gift of some thoughtful neighbor. It looked tempting through the glass cake cover that imprisoned it. She raised the cover and swiped at the icing with one finger, feeling just as guilty as when she'd done the same as a child.
Licking away the stickiness, she moved to the tall cooler, which was much like the refrigerator in her apartment. She pulled open the door and a moist chill coiled out to touch her. A huge block of ice sat in the bottom and a crockery pitcher rested on a shelf. She tipped the vessel forward and peeped in at cold milk.
Cold whole milk and homemade chocolate cake. When was the last time she'd indulged in such decadence?
She drew out the pitcher and poured herself a glass, then sliced two generous portions of the cake and placed each on a delicate china plate with a pink rose pattern. She found a fork in a drawer and sliced off a bite. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on the rush of flavor and the memory of a long-forgotten cake concocted in her grandmother's kitchen.
She raised the glass and sipped the cold, smooth milk, laden with milk fat. A small sound startled her and she opened her eyes. Matthew leaned against the door facing, his arms crossed, smiling. No, he was almost laughing.
"What?" she asked with a shrug of her shoulders.
He shoved away from the door and moved toward her. his tie hanging loose. When he was inches in front of her. he reached out a finger and wiped at her top lip. "You wear the evidence of your sin, Mrs. Sutton."
As his fingers grazed her mouth, the laughter faded from his eyes. His touch lingered on her skin and he moved closer until their foreheads touched. "I'm glad you're here with me, Leigh."
His scent was sweet, a warm honest smell without the aid of cologne. Bits and pieces of his letters floated through her mind, vows and wishes intended for another.
"Matthew." She raised her hands to place them against his chest, but his fingers caught hers.
"You and I are strangers in all ways except our words. I do not expect more of you than you are willing to give," he said carefully.
"Matthew—" she began again, but he interrupted her.
"Come." He tugged at her hand and led her through the house and out onto the porch. Moonlight rained silver on the fields visible beyond the trees that surrounded the house.
Planting her hands on the porch railing, she breathed in, her chest tingling with the cold, fresh air. Her blood began to race and her senses surged with awareness. Matthew wrapped his arms around her from behind and drew her backward into his embrace. She relaxed, allowing her body to mold to his.
"Come with me," he said into her hair. He took her hand and led her off the porch and across the carefully tended yard to the edge of a field. Freshly turned soil lay in gentle ridges, frosted by the light of the moon.
Matthew scooped up a handful of the dirt, crushed it in his fist, then held it to his nose and inhaled. "The only time it smells any better is in the spring when Patty and I turn it for the first time."
He held out his closed fist, indicating that Leigh was to smell. She did, cautiously, but found, to her surprise, that the aroma was pleasant and somehow comforting.
She smiled at the expectancy in his eyes. He was like a child offering a new drawing or some enigmatic creation rendered in clay. He opened his fist and let the soil filter away. Then he brushed off his palms and pulled her to him.
"I can only offer you simple things, Leigh. My love. This land. Sunrises. Songbirds. I'm not a rich man, nor do I ever expect to be."
Leigh closed her eyes, guilt and joy warring within her.
"You came to me, to strange people and a strange town, leaving behind all you know because I asked you to," he murmured into her hair. "In return, all that is mine is yours: my heart, this land, these fields, and all that is in them. You only know me by my words. You haven't looked into my face and judged me. I hope that, over the next weeks, you will come to love me as I love you."
A tiny voice frantically reminded Leigh that she was an impostor as she tilted her face up and stared into Matthew's eyes, again dark with emotion. He lowered his head and kissed her, drawing her tighter against him until she could feel the work-roughened ridges of his abdomen and the strength of his grip. When he raised his head, his pulse was hammering against her chest and the strong arms that held her trembled slightly.
"You may have the bedroom I showed you yesterday," he said into her hair, his chin propped on her head. Then he released her and moved a tiny step away. "I'll stay across the hall until you ask me into your bed."
Chapter Five
The bluntness and compassion of his words took her aback, robbing her of her self-assuredness. All her worldly knowledge and experience deserted her, leaving her truly a trembling virgin bride and him the experienced lover. She'd been prepared to have to find some way to tactfully fend off his amorous advances, to explain that they needed to know each other better, when in reality intimacy with Matthew was all she had thought about since walking out of the church.
"It's time for bed." He led her back across the yard and held the screen door open. They ascended the stairs and he lit a lamp just inside the bedroom he'd so carefully prepared. Soft yellow light chased the shadows into the corners of the room.
With hands that trembled slightly, he replaced the chimney to the lamp and turned to face her. He removed the veil from her hair and laid it on the bed. For a moment, she thought he might change his mind about separate bedrooms and desire surged to life. But instead, he leaned down and kissed her again, but this kiss was different from earlier. Now his lips moved over hers in a familiar, almost playful way. When he drew away, she wanted more.
"Good night," he said and walked quickly out of the room, closing the door behind him. Disappointment replaced caution, and deep within her, his words left a small knot of loneliness.
******************
Matthew allowed his fingers to linger on the doorknob, a darker side of himself urging him to reopen the door. She'd expected him to sleep with her, to claim her love here and now, forging them together. He'd seen it in her eyes, but he'd seen fear, too. Now a gender voice explained patiently that they were, in fact, strangers and she needed to be courted and won.
And yet there was something about her he could neither name nor place—something different, mysterious, odd. She seemed to be here with him and then also seemed to be existing in her own world, a private bubble into which he was not permitted.
With effort, he drew his hand away and moved across the hall to his own room, darker and more lonely than it had ever been. Standing in the dimness, he pulled off his tie and removed his coat. A cold breeze was pouring in the window and as he pulled down the sash, he wondered if Leigh was cold. Was her window closed against the night's chill? He should go look, a voice within him urged.
He pushed away the voice and lit his bedside lamp. The furnishings seemed shabby. Uncertainty gripped him.
What can a poor farmer like you, Matthew Sutton, have to offer a woman like Leigh ?
Perhaps she had expected more. Maybe it wasn't hesitation he'd seen in her eyes, but disappointment. A thousand worries suddenly poured into his mind, addling his thoughts for a moment. Then a cool breeze through the window calmed his racing mind and heart, reassuring him with its gentle voice. Leigh was a wonderful woman. Kind. Gentle. Cultured. A real lady. And yet she was a farmer's daughter, reared on the land, accustomed to hard work. He would court her, woo her to his side, win her heart. The worry drained out of him and fatigue took its place.
******************
The brightness of the sunflowers was blinding, like tiny suns come down to earth. Someone stepped toward her, out of the light, took her hand, and began to lead her away, deeper into the field of nodding flowers. The hand that gripped hers was firm and warm, and occasionally she caught the timbre of a soft voice, pointing out a flower, describing the softness of its petals, the firmness of its cluster of seeds. Then the dream vanished like a bubble speared by a blade of backyard grass on a sultry summer afternoon.
Soft sounds drew her out of the hazy remains of her dream and into the bold reality of morning. She turned over. Matthew stood at the end of the bed, holding a tray, fingering her veil, which still lay across the end of her bed.
"Good morning," he said, abruptly dropping the veil.
"Good morning."
He sat down on the edge of the bed, the mattress giving way with a gentle groan. "Did you sleep well?" he asked, leaning over to place the tray on the bedside table.
"Yes, I did. In fact," she said, pushing herself up in the bed, "I can't remember when I have slept so soundly."
Dark circles shadowed his eyes and restless sleep had tousled his hair. His shirtsleeves were carelessly rolled up to his elbows, baring strong, sinuous arms.
"Did you?" she asked, already knowing the answer.
"Yes, I did," he lied, then rose, moved to the window, and stared out across the field. Daylight was just breaking, casting lethargic shadows against the opposite wall.
Guilt, now her constant companion, probed at her again. A confession rose up in her and with it, all the imagined relief at baring her soul. But before the first words left her lips, she looked into his eyes, brimming with love. Love for her. Not for this other person who had written emotionless letters and skimmed the surface of life, never diving into the depths.
The idea that he loved her, wanted her, shook her so that she moved her hand to throw back the quilt and invite him beneath the covers with her.
"Would you like to see the farm?" he asked before she could speak.
"Yes. I would like that very much."
"I'll be downstairs when you're ready." He strode to the open door. "Take your time," he said, then moved through the door and shut it behind him.
She ran her hand across the quilt that covered her. Even stitch had been worked with love, every seam carefully studied before it was fitted into the pattern. Not a task taken lightly nor a gift given easily—a gift more of oneself than of substance. Was this simplicity what her soul had craved? Was this why Ian had arrived to "save" her?
Shaking off the confused musing, Leigh swung her feet out of bed, wincing as they touched the cold floor. Her dresses peeked out of the armoire, collected and delivered by Miss Eva before the wedding. She selected a heavy wool one, again wishing for jeans and a sweater. Maybe she would buy a pair one day when they were in town. Perhaps
with time, Matthew would not be so shocked to see her wear them.
She drained the glass of milk Matthew had brought her and hurried downstairs. Heat rose to meet her at the top of the stairs, along with the aroma of baking bread. Matthew wasn't in the kitchen when she arrived. She turned back through the living room; then she saw him standing on the front porch, a cup in his hand. He wore no coat, despite the fog that rose with each breath, and he stared off across his fields, now dusted with frost.
"There you are," she said, opening the door and stepping out into the cold.
He glanced back at her and smiled. "Our lovely autumn is over, I fear. Last night was the first frost." He pointed to the sparkling landscape. "Winter will be swift now."
He took another sip of the coffee and the aroma coiled up and wound around Leigh.
"Have you got another cup of that?" she asked.
Matthew glanced at her with a quick frown. "Of course.  In the kitchen on the stove." Leigh started for the door.  “I made it very strong. I thought you didn't like coffee."
Another misstep. Leigh paused with her hand on the screen. "Well, since it's such a cold morning and yours smelled so good, I thought I'd try it Since you like it so much." The excuse sounded shallow and contrived, but she dared not look back over her shoulder.
"Cups are in the cabinet to the left."
She shoved the door open and walked to the kitchen. |ust what other intimate details of this other woman did Matthew know and she did not? From the letters, it appeared the other woman had told very little of herself to him, Matthew doing most of the revealing; yet there must have been some times when the woman told him things of herself, her life.
She poured herself a cup and sipped the coffee, wincing at its strength.
"I warned you," Matthew said, setting his empty cup on the table and moving to her side. She hadn't heard him come in, and she started when he put his arms around her and drew her back against him.
There was a controlled intensity in the arms that bound her to him.
"I love you," he said simply into her hair.
The corresponding words bubbled up into her throat, surprising her with their assuredness. But she bit them back, not yet ready to completely surrender herself to this fantasy.
"You don't have to answer," he whispered, and the note of disappointment in his voice twisted at her heart.
"Matthew, I just need ... time."
"I know." He relaxed his grip and let his arms fall to his sides. "Well, I promised you a tour. Would you like to walk out to the barn with me and I'll hitch the team to the wagon?"
He started forward, but Leigh caught her arm. "Matthew. Could I borrow a pair of your pants?"
He turned and frowned. "To wear?"
"I wore them at home often. They were so much more comfortable than skirts .. . around the farm." She winced inside, hoping her memory was accurate and that Matthew really had commented on her life on the farm.
He studied her a moment longer. "I have an old pair. Wait here."
Leigh released her breath and said a small, grateful prayer.
Matthew returned and held out the trousers. "I brought a shirt, too."
Leigh took them from him, feeling his gaze on her back as she turned and headed upstairs. "I'll only be a moment."
"I'll wait for you," he called after her.
She slipped into the trousers, sighing contentedly when the heavy dress slipped away. Standing in front of her mirror, she cinched the pants with a belt from one of her dresses. They were a little tighter than she liked, but she smiled, imagining Matthew's reaction.
Shock rendered Matthew speechless as Leigh descended the stairs, one hand on the stair rail, taking each step slowly and carefully. His old work pants hugged her figure like a second skin, the worn denim doing little to hide the curve of her hips and the smooth lines of her thighs and legs.
He swallowed and watched her close the distance between them, every step, every movement executed with deliberation for maximum effect.
"Thank you," she said, reaching the bottom step. "These are much more comfortable." Her expression was teasing, seductive, and her eyes glittered with mischief.
 “What did your father say about your dressing like . . . this?"
Her expression faded, replaced by a frown. "Well, he didn't say much about it." Her eyes narrowed in thought. "I didn't wear pants unless there was no one around except him and Mother."
"What about your brothers?"
She frowned again, deeper this time. "My brothers?"
"Yes. James and Sam?"
She chewed her bottom lip, tiny white teeth nibbling at the pink skin. "They didn't care either."
Funny, Matthew thought. He'd never have pegged Leigh Hunter as a rebel. In fact, this woman standing before him had so little in common with the woman with whom he'd corresponded for nearly a year that she could be a total stranger. Could someone truly be so different in the flesh? Or was there something afoot here?
She stepped down into the hallway, a shadow of a frown still playing across her face. "Are we going to the barn?"
"Yes." He caught her elbow, careful to keep his hands away from her body, even though his palm ached to slide down her side and over the intriguing curve her hipbones made beneath the cotton fabric.
A cold wind scattered her hair across her face in delicate wisps as they stepped from the house. Following the well-trodden path to the barn, they heard the groans before they reached the closed barn.
Matthew dropped her hand and broke into a trot. Leigh hurried behind him, the sounds raising the tiny hairs on the back of her neck, even though she had no idea of the source.
Matthew flung open the heavy doors and hurried down the line of stalls, almost skidding to a stop in front of one midway down.
"What is ... ?" The words died in her throat as she stopped behind Matthew. The mare, Patty, stood with head drooped forlornly, her back arched in a bow. A tiny, still bundle lay in the hay at her feet.
"Patty," Matthew whispered, moving along her side, his hand gliding across her coat. "Oh no." He dropped to his knees and ran his hands over the foal.
"What's the matter with her?"
Matthew turned a pale face toward Leigh. "Twins. This one's dead. The other's probably a breech."
The breech part she understood only too well. The old, nearly forgotten fear clawed its way out of her insides and settled cold, bony hands around her throat. She backed up a step.
"Go back to the house," Matthew said, his tone broaching no argument.
"No. I want to stay. I can help."
"This is not something you need to see, Leigh."
"I know how terrible this can be."
He frowned again. "You do? How?"
A pretty lie sprang to her lips, an easy explanation. But the truth shouldered past. "My sister," she whispered.
Matthew stared at her a moment until Patty groaned again, the sound almost human. “Go get that rope hanging there on the wall. Then go back to the house and get the bucket of lard on the back porch."
Leigh quickly retrieved the rope, then ran back over the path they'd just traveled to the back porch. She found a tin bucket in the corner. A peek under the lid revealed a thick yellow substance like bacon grease. She heaved on the thin wire handle and lugged the heavy bucket across the yard to the barn.
The mare's reddish-brown coat rose and fell in struggling breaths. Her eyes were terrified. The dark pupils rimmed in white were focused on Matthew, as if begging for his help.
"I have to get her back up on her feet," he said. Then he looked up at Leigh, doubt clearly evident in his gaze, and Leigh knew he judged her lacking for this purpose. He considered her a delicate flower in need of shelter and protection—something to be adored and guarded, but never used.
Indignation flared within her and anger, dark and hot, slowly filled her chest. Then she remembered the woman who had scripted the passionless letters filled with inane details of a protected and privileged life—a hothouse flower, reared to be a pretty decoration on a man's arm.
Leigh narrowed her eyes. Well, not this gal. "What do you want me to do?"
Matthew studied her a moment longer. "Take that rope and loop it through her halter. We have to tie her off so she can't lie down."
Following his example, Leigh slid the rope through a ring in the halter and tied a knot. Matthew took the line from her and moved deeper into the stall to stand at the mare's head.
"Back away," he instructed and Leigh moved out into the hallway.
With gentle words and firm pressure on the two lines, Matthew encouraged the horse to stand. She refused at first; then she lunged to her feet and stood on wobbly legs.
"Take that rope and coat it with lard," he instructed, hidden from view by the mare. Then he moved into sight, tying each of the halter ropes to rings on opposite sides of the stall.
Leigh took the rope, dipped one finger into the oozy mess, then plunged the rope into the lard. When she drew the rope out, globs of lard plopped onto the barn floor and her shoes.
Matthew shoved his whole arm into the lard and smeared the grease up to his shoulder. He held out his hand for the grease-coated rope and flashed her a small smile before approaching the back end of the mare. He looped a slip knot into one end of the rope and paused.
"You should leave now, Leigh. This isn't going to be pretty, and it isn't decent for you to see."
"Isn't decent? I'm your wife. What could happen on this farm that isn't decent for me to see?"
Matthew stared at her and she thought she saw a small spark of admiration in his slow smile.
He ran a hand over the mare's hind quarters, speaking to her in a low, soothing voice; then he pushed his arm, rope and all, inside her womb.
Leigh fell back against the wall, anticipating flailing hooves. At least from her own experiences in the gynecologist's office, that would be what she'd do if she were a horse and could get away with it.
Patty hunched her back and grunted in relief, almost as if she knew Matthew was helping.
"I've got the nose," Matthew said, his cheek against the horse's rump. "And the front feet." He rotated his arm slightly and began to withdraw his arm very slowly. Patty made a feeble attempt to lie down, bending her front knees, but the ropes prevented her from sinking into the hay.
Matthew crooned words of nonsense to her, keeping his voice even and soft; all the while the rope continued to emerge. Then, two tiny hooves and a little black nose appeared.
Patty hunched her back and grunted.
"That's the way. Help me, girl." His voice rose with excitement and the foal slid out into the world, caught by a bed of fragrant hay.
Leigh stared at the scene, knowing her mouth was hanging open. Matthew quickly tore away a huge membrane, caught up a handful of hay, and began to brush the baby as if to scrub away the fur.
"Untie Patty," Matthew said, never taking his eyes from the foal.
Leigh edged her way along the inside of the stall, one eye on the horse and the other on the knot inches from her fingertips. What if Patty decided she'd had enough of this intrusion? Leigh pulled the knot loose. Then she moved around the horse's head and untied the other knot, dashing out of the stall, nearly knocking over Matthew in her haste.
Patty angled her head around to peer at the baby, then wiggled around until she could lower a soft nose and nudge at the bundle in the hay. She nudged more firmly, rocking the baby back and forth. With a mew like that of a newborn kitten, the foal lunged to its feet and irritably switched a stump of a tail. Patty rumbled deep in her chest, rubbing her broad nose over the baby's body, encouraging it to move closer. Then, with joyous tail twitching, the baby found its mother's milk.
Patty leveled kind brown eyes on Matthew and as good as said, "Thank you," with another soft rumble. Leigh glanced at Matthew. Tears ran down his cheeks, pooling in the corners of his smile. Her throat tightened. Together, they'd brought a life into the world, connected intimately with another creature. Leigh closed her eyes for a moment, remembering her sister's struggle to give birth, her face pale against the hospital sheets, her eyes filled with the same pain, the same fear.
When Leigh opened her eyes again, Matthew had his arms around Patty's neck; his face was buried in her soft mane. If anyone else hugged a horse with tears in their eyes, she'd have scoffed at their sentimentality and thought them a fool, but she knew Matthew's emotions were real. Living here, coaxing his living from the land, he and his animals and his land were one, each dependent on the other for survival.
Simple things.
The belief he lived by.
Simple things.
And with her heart pounding from both fright and joy, Leigh realized with staggering reality that was exactly what she wanted—what had been lacking in the life she lived from one great expectation to the next, missing all the good stuff in between.
Matthew released Patty and stepped back, casting a sheepish glance at Leigh. He caught the hind feet of the dead foal and moved it into an adjoining empty stall. Patty was busy with the new foal and didn't seem to notice the loss of its twin.
"I should bury it now before Patty smells it and remembers," Matthew said apologetically, brushing at the smear of blood that streaked his shirt.
"I'll help you."
"No," he answered quickly. "You don't have to do that."
"I know I don't have to, but with two of us, the job'll take half the time." Leigh took two shovels down off the wall. "Then we can take our tour around the farm."
He started to speak, his lips moving wordlessly, but he nodded instead.
Matthew carried the tiny body out to a sun-dappled spot that would be shaded by an aspen tree in the summer. Wordlessly, they dug the grave and laid the foal to rest. The sun was high and shadows short when they finished and started back toward the house. Matthew took her shovel from her and gave her hand a squeeze that spoke more than words.
******************
Matthew leaned his hips against the kitchen sink, his shirt tied around his waist. One finger pulled the skin on his cheek taut as the other hand pulled a straight razor across the angles of his face. Bits and dabs of soap spattered his face, betraying the paths of the razor.
Perched on a kitchen chair, Leigh watched, fascinated, toweling the last of the dampness out of her hair. The whole shaving process seemed so intricate, so complex, and yet so uncomplicated. One of life's smaller joys, her father used to say. A smooth, clean face to start the day.
Simply by feel, Matthew seemed to know where to place the blade for the next pass, the proper slant, proper speed ... all without drawing a drop of blood. An impressive feat considering she couldn't shave her legs without one or two nicks.
Matthew cut his eyes at her and smiled, never missing a pass with the razor. "Did you never watch your father shave?"
"Huh? Yes. When I was little," Leigh answered, shaking herself out of her reverie.
Matthew swished the razor in a pan of water in the sink, twisted his mouth to one side, and resumed the gentle scraping. There was something very soothing about watching him perform such a mundane task, something very domestic—an ideal Leigh had avoided at all costs . . . until now.
Matthew had removed all his clothes except the suit of long underwear that sagged in the rump, and he'd washed away as much of the lard as possible outside. Now water for his bath was heating. She'd bathed first while Matthew busied himself in the barn. Now the tub stood in the center of the kitchen floor . . . refilled and waiting.
"Is that water hot yet, Leigh?" he asked.
A large pot rattled its lid impatiently as if in response to his question. He'd filled the tub almost full with cold water, bucketful by bucketful, and now all that remained between her and a naked Matthew Sutton was the all-too-cooperative rattling pot.
Leigh knew what she was about to do was brazen and likely to give Matthew the shock of his life, but she refused to cower in the other room while her husband bathed. If she was to live this life as Leigh Hunter, housewife, farmhand, helpmate, she was going to live it under her own terms.
And he was her husband.
In all ways but one.
He'd expected to marry a mouse, prepared himself for life with a fragile bit of fluff. Well, she was about to dispel those illusions.
He toweled away the soap remains and laid his razor on a small shelf by the sink. Turning, he ran a hand over his face, jutting out his jaw to test its smoothness. He caught her gaze and stopped, his hand still cradling his chin. "Some exciting first day as Mrs. Matthew Sutton, huh?"
Leigh nodded.
He knitted his eyebrows briefly. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, I'm fine," she answered. "Still a little amazed."
He laughed and loosened the shirt around his waist. "I've seen a lot of foals and calves born and it still amazes me, too." He took two towels from the counter and carefully lifted the steaming pot from the stove eye. Steam clouded around him as he poured the boiling water in the tub. He set the pot back on the stove and turned toward Leigh.
"I'll take you on that turn around the farm as soon as I'm done," he said, a suggestive note in his voice.
Leigh nodded. "Okay."
Matthew waited, but she remained seated. He stared pointedly at her, but she returned the stare coolly.
"I'm going to get into the bath now." He tried again.
She nodded again.
Unnerved, Matthew began to unbutton his suit of underwear, but Leigh didn't flinch. When he reached his navel, he paused and looked up at her. Except for a slight flush across her cheeks, she seemed unaffected. Disrobing in front of a woman, even if she was his wife, was something he had never done before. Somehow, undressing before her in the heat of passion seemed more ... proper than doing so in broad daylight in his own kitchen.
"When I take this off, there is nothing underneath," he said bluntly. Perhaps as an innocent, she did not realize that once this garment fell to the floor, there would be nothing between them except what she wore.
Slowly, she nodded. "I know."
Matthew hesitated. The next move was his. No one is that innocent, his common sense warned and his heart began to hammer. She was playing some seductive game with him. After all, she was not all what he had expected from her letters.
Desire coiled in his stomach and his body made its wants known. He felt his cheeks flush, as much from the absurdity of the situation as from embarrassment. He was held captive by his body and his wife in the middle of his own kitchen.
Tension vibrated between them and the air was thick with more than steam. Everything about her, the way her hand pushed back her hair, the way she licked her lips, the slow arch of her neck as she readjusted her spine, seduced him.
If he took the next step, what would happen? Would he send his virgin bride screaming from the room? Or would she uncoil herself from that chair and saunter across the space between them? Drape her arms around his neck? Hold her all-too-evident curves against his bare body? Maybe join him in the bath?
"Leigh, this just isn't done. There's something about it ... It isn't proper." He shoved his arms back into his sleeves and quickly sat down on a nearby chair.
"What isn't proper?" she asked.
"You there . . . me . . . here." He pointed at the tub, knowing he sounded like an idiot.
She smiled a small, slow cat smile and he suddenly knew how the cornered barn mouse felt.
"Do I make you nervous?"
"No, Leigh . . . it's just . . ." He was babbling again. Speak, Matthew. You're a grown man. "It's just not proper for a wife to watch her husband bathe. Especially when they've not . . . not ..."
"Slept together?" she finished.
"Yes," he answered with a rush of breath.
As he feared, she uncoiled herself from the chair, her movements languid, fluid. She glided across the short distance between them, stopped and looked down at him.
"Then it's time we did something about that."
Chapter Six
Nothing in Leigh's letters could ever have prepared Matthew for the woman who stood before him now, her eyes dark and sensuous, threatening to devour him with their depths. Vet he felt as if he were staring up at a stranger.
Was she toying with him? Teasing him? There was only one wav to find out. He rose from the chair and moved back to the steaming tub. He stood for a second, facing her; then he drew his arms out of the garment and paused, the material gathered in his hands at his waist, giving her a chance to back away.
She didn't blink.
He dropped the suit of underwear to the floor and stepped out of it, all the while keeping eye contact with her. She calmly scanned him from head to toe, then returned her gaze to his face.
He stepped into the tub and sat down, sliding down in the water. The air undulated with tension as he picked up the soap and hastily made lather to cloud the clear water. Leigh knelt down beside the tub and spider walked her fingers across the tops of his shoulders, stopping to feel the knots of tension there. He shuddered under her touch and tiny ripples darted away to crash against the tub's side.
She took the cloth from his hand, dipped it into the water and began to lather the soap.
"Leigh, this isn't a good idea."
"Of course it is." She drew the cloth across his shoulders and he closed his eyes. Of all the dreams he'd ever had of family and marriage, this was the one he most craved.
Touch.
The touch of a gentle hand that knew his body, his wants, his needs. Soothing fingers that sought out and caressed some needy part. Hands frantic with passion. An innocent caress at the end of a long day. He sighed and leaned into her hand.
Drawing circles, she covered the fine hair scattered across his chest, the expanse of his shoulders, his forearms, and as her hand dipped below the water, he caught her wrist.
"Don't" He bit out the words, bringing his face even with hers.
"You're my husband," she said softly. "You said I had to ask. Well, I'm asking."
Leigh watched hesitation play across his face. His lips moved as if he were about to speak; then he abruptly pulled her face forward with a soapy hand to the back of her head and kissed her, soap and all. There was nothing of the gentle, proper Matthew Sutton in this kiss. It was urgent, wanting, thinly controlled.
"Leigh." He whispered her name with such naked passion that all her defenses crumbled and the game was no longer a game.
She pulled away, her fingers fumbling at the buttons on her shirt while he watched.
"Yo. Matthew boy," a voice called from the porch. Before she could react, the door scraped open and a man walked into the kitchen, a cloud of pipe smoke preceding him.
His ice blue eyes twinkled at the sight of the two of them, but he didn't appear flustered or even embarrassed, merely amused. Leaning against the doorframe, he crossed his arms, clamped the pipe between his teeth and grinned around it.
"Leigh, this is Isaac Benton, my neighbor," Matthew said with all the dignity he could muster. "Isaac, this is Leigh ... my wife."
Even that admission didn't ruffle the man casually lounged in the door. "Married her, did ya?"
"Last night," Matthew said pointedly.
Isaac tossed a casual gaze her way, still smiling; then he turned his attention back to Matthew. "Got a new dog yesterday. Drove all the way over to Eldon for it."
Leigh was having trouble fighting down the laughter struggling to get out. If Matthew could only see his face, she thought with a new onslaught of internal mirth. He may have had a more embarrassing moment in his life, but she'd bet this one would at least move into the top five.
"Patty had her foal this morning. Twins. One was born dead and the other was a breech. We turned her and she's all right."
Isaac grunted and cast another assessing glance toward Leigh.
"Got dirty, did ya, boy?"
Matthew nodded miserably. "Lard."
Isaac smiled, mischief sparking in his eyes. "Elizabeth sent ya some cake. It's outside in the wagon. I'll go get it." With a final amused smile, he pushed away from the doorframe and sauntered out the front door.
Leigh sat down on a chair and laughed out loud. "Oh, Matthew. Your face."
He grinned crookedly. "Isaac owns the farm next door, he and his wife, Elizabeth. He appointed himself my guardian a long time ago."
"Don't people knock around here?"
Matthew smiled slyly. "Not in the middle of the morning."
"I'll go keep him on the porch while you finish your bath." She rose to go, but Matthew caught her wrist. "We'll finish this later," he said with a smoldering look.
Her head spun from the wave of need that slammed into her. It was as if he had reached inside her and turned on a switch. She imagined her knees wobbled visibly for an instant as his hand fell away and she directed her steps toward the front door, hearing the water splash behind her.
Isaac rocked back and forth in a porch rocker, his pipe resting in one hand. He stared out across the fields, their coat of frost long since melted away.
"Do ya love the boy?" Isaac asked bluntly, continuing to stare far away.
"Yes, I do." The answer just slid out, surprising Leigh with its simplicity... and its truth. The conquest had been a sneak attack.
"Humph," Isaac replied, seating the pipe back in his mouth. "Didn't think much of you from yore letters."
"Really?"
"Matthew let me read 'em."
Leigh sat down in a companion chair, covering her surprise at the admission. Old Isaac had nothing on New Yorkers for bluntness—that was for sure. Why would Matthew share something that seemed so intimate to him? And just who was this Isaac Benton that he should be privy to these very personal letters?
"He was took with ya right from the start." Isaac shook his head and rested his pipe on the chair arm. "Matthew's a dreamer, always got his head in the clouds. Couldn't find a better man nowhere's tho'. That's why it's my job to look out fer 'im." Isaac shifted in the chair and turned those chilling blue eyes on her again. "What are yore intentions with this boy?"
A sharp laugh bubbled up in Leigh, but she bit back the sound when she realized Isaac was deadly serious. "I think my intentions are clear. I married him, didn't I?"
"Sayin' words and doin' deeds ain't the same, missy. Any fool knows that."
Leigh chafed under the rude words, but that damned inner voice reminded her she'd answered many times just as cutting and just as intentionally.
"Before I answer your question, answer mine. What business is it of yours?" She raised her chin a bit, anticipating his tart retort.
He continued to stare at her with those icy eyes, then smiled. "I like a direct woman. Like I said, Matthew there's a dreamer. Always sees the good in everybody. Takes in every stray that conies along. Not a better judge of horseflesh in the county and not a worse judge of people.
"He lost his mama and papa when he was a young'un, 'bout fourteen, as I remember. But he stayed on here, grubbed out a living for himself, finished school, too. Me and the wife, we wanted to take him in, raise him as one of ours, but Matthew'd have none of it No, sir. It was his farm and he wanted to run it himself." Isaac shrugged and leaned back in the chair. "So I kept an eye on him. Invited him over for a meal once a week at least. Let him do things his own way. And he didn't do too bad for himself. Got one of the prettiest places around."
Another soul forged in the fire of loss, Leigh thought. Touched, she felt a silken bond coil around her heart, binding her to Matthew.
"Then Mary came along." Isaac smiled. "Sweetest little thing. Matthew acted like a darn fool for months over her. Then her drunkard daddy set the house afire, and Mary with it."
The sweet little ghost that haunted the house swept over Leigh's soul, reminding her that the house she was beginning to love had been carefully prepared for not one, but two other women, neither of them her.
"Matthew grieved for a year. Then he got this darn fool idea in his head to order himself a bride." Isaac shifted in the chair to stare at her. "That's when yore first letter come."
Leigh sorted through the letters in her mind, trying to recall the first comments exchanged and came up with nothing. So she remained quiet, certain Isaac would tell her just what she'd said.
"You struck me and Elizabeth as a spoiled, pampered brat lookin' for a husband to give her poor parents some relief.''
Leigh recoiled under the attack, her mind speeding through paragraphs and sentences, searching for some information with which to defend herself.
"Matthew musta been uncertain, too, 'cause he asked me to read yore letters after a few months. Oh, the boy said you were just what he wanted, just the woman for him, but I had my doubts."
Leigh leveled an icy stare on Isaac, applying her best board room glare. "I assure you, Mr. Benton, that I am neither spoiled nor pampered."
Isaac made a sound of disgust and returned to staring off across the fields. "Didn't sound that way to me. All them parties you prattled on and on about. All them shopping trips with yore mama. How you were goin' to redo Matthew's house to suit you."
Funny, Leigh thought, she didn't remember even one comment about dreams or plans. But she could remember nothing to refute what he was saying. In fact, her opinion of the other Leigh was just the same as Isaac's, leaving her no argument in her favor.
"That was my former life, this is my life with Matthew." The statement sounded as empty and feeble to her as she knew it did to Isaac.
He turned back to her, a thin line of smoke streaming out of his pipe. "You help deliver that foal today like the boy said?"
Leigh nodded.
Isaac clamped on the pipe stem, making a sharp clicking sound until Leigh longed to snatch it out of his mouth. "Well ... we'll see."
He rose and Leigh knew she'd been judged and that the conversation was over.
"Isaac. Stay and have some cake with us," Matthew said, pushing through the door. His hair was still damp and the scent of soap trailed behind him.
"Naw," Isaac said with a quick glance at Leigh. "I gotta get on home. Elizabeth said to invite you and the missus over for supper tonight, if you can come."
Panic clamped a cold hand around Leigh's heart. Passing herself off to Matthew was a large enough challenge, but maintaining her charade in front of people who knew Matthew so well might be another.
"We'd love to. See you tonight." With a hand on Isaac's back, Matthew accompanied him out to where his wagon was hitched to a birch tree. The two men stood, their arms draped over the wagon's sides, in conversation. Leigh watched Matthew for a moment, an odd sense of pride sneaking through her at the sight of him. He'd taken a life of ruins and resurrected it . . . twice.
******************
Leigh pushed the rocker and set it swaying back and forth, basking in a sunbeam that arched across the porch. Funny. She hadn't thought about going back home since . . . when? Not since she'd gone to the produce stand and found it empty. Did she still want to? She asked herself the question, then paused, waiting for the answer.
No, she did not.
All she'd ever wanted or needed was here.
But she wasn't entitled to it. She was a liar, an impostor, allowing Matthew to go on thinking he had married his meek little hothouse flower. She had to tell him.
"Isaac keeps an eye on me."
Leigh jumped, startled. "I see that."
Matthew stepped up onto the porch and stared down at his feet. "He's not a rude man." He spoke as if to make certain she understood this person, who was very important to him.
"He doesn't like me very much."
Matthew smiled. "Isaac doesn't like most people. I think he got the wrong idea about you." He glanced up. "As I did."
"Why did you let him read my letters?" She nearly choked on the lie.
Matthew blushed. "I'm sorry I did that. I was uncertain, confused. I wanted his opinion."
So Matthew had had doubts about his bride. "And did I measure up?"
Matthew smiled. "I imagine he told you his opinion."
"He did. And I told him mine. He doesn't think I'm good enough for you. He thinks you've had enough pain and I would just add to it."
"What else did he tell you?" Matthew asked sharply.
"About your parents."
Matthew turned away from her, his hands on hips, and moved to the edge of the porch. "Damn Isaac's meddling," he said beneath his breath.
"He just wanted me to understand you, Matthew."
Matthew turned. "It was my place to tell you about them."
Leigh rose and met him in the middle of the porch, placing a hand on his chest. "So tell me about them now."
Matthew shook his head. "I have to show you." He caught her hand and drew her behind him down the steps and out into the yard.
Morning sun had stolen the layer of frost from the fields and dusty rays slanted through the trees to warm the ground. Hand in hand, they walked the perimeter of the front field, half in shade, half in sun. Golden stubble speared color-spattered leaves, marking the completion of harvest, and a few hardy birds sang in the branches over their heads, warbling sweet hymns for the dying of summer.
Matthew didn't speak, even though Leigh waited for him to elaborate on Isaac's comments. Instead, he strode at her side, guiding her gently up a slight rise and then across the field to a charred spot. He stopped, stared down at the darkened ground, then gripped her shoulders and turned her around.
Leigh inhaled quickly. Spread out beneath her was Matthew's farm. The house sat primly amidst its skirt of birches. The barn was off to the left, and beyond the buildings, the fields stretched like a rumpled patchwork quilt to the horizon.
His breath was quick on her neck as he moved close behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. "Our house used to sit here. Daddy and Mama cleared all this land themselves, and Daddy said he chose this spot because every morning he could walk out on the porch and see all his good fortune spread out at his feet."
"What happened to them?"
Matthew's grip tightened faintly. "Smallpox. Both of them at once. Only God knows why I wasn't taken."
"You stayed here all alone?" Leigh turned and his hands dropped away from her.
Matthew nodded. "No one knows where they got it. Hadn't been a case in the county in years. The doctor insisted we had to burn the house and them in it to prevent an epidemic."
A small muscle in his jaw tightened and relaxed. "Mama used to tease Daddy that he was a foolish man to build his house on the top of a hill, where every bit of wind could blow through the walls. Daddy built the barn down there where it was warmer. It was lucky he did. That's where I lived . .. afterward."
Leigh turned back toward the neat house, the carefully kept yards, the brightly painted barn. All hard won.
And for some reason he wanted to share this with her.
She was not deserving.
"Matthew, there's something I've been trying to tell you." Leigh turned back to stare up into his expectant face. Words deserted her at the tenderness she found in his eyes.
"What?" he asked with a slight frown.
"I'm . .. I'm not who you think I am."
He smiled, a relieved note in the sound. "No one is. I don't expect to know you, as I want to, in the beginning. Knowing another person takes years, and then sometimes we never completely understand that person."
"That's not what I mean." A thousand words raced through her mind—short, terse explanations; compassionate explanations—none of them adequate. "I mean that I'm really not who you think I am." She drew in a deep breath. Her heart pounded and her head swam with the repercussions that would come. "I'm not Leigh Hunter." She closed her eyes and waited for the explosion.
When she heard nothing, she opened her eyes and stared at Matthew. He stared back, wearing an expression of patient understanding. "I don't know your reasons, Leigh, but I knew you were not truthful with me right at the start."
"You did?"
"Of course. You didn't think you fooled me, did you?"
"Well ... I thought—"
"I knew you were not the woman portrayed in the letters. No one could hold so little passion for life."
"I beg your pardon?"
Matthew stepped closer and slid his arms around her waist, pulling her against him. "You wanted me to think you were a cold, unfeeling woman who saw no joy in the same things I did. You don't have to tell me why you did it and I'll never ask. We are here now together. That's all that's important."
Realization dawned and Leigh attempted to pull away, but he held her firmly in his arms and kissed her. As in the kitchen, he kissed her with bone-melting intensity, passionate and rawly wanting. Despite the arguments lining up in her head like an orderly regiment, her body responded to his, and she let him pull her closer.
"Oh, Leigh," he whispered into her hair when he finally released her mouth.
The honest confession weakened her knees as the lethargy of responding arousal poured through her like warm honey. "I know. I want you, too," she whispered back while tiny voices of alarm danced a jig in her head.
All Leigh's liaisons rolled into one had never generated a tenth of the mind-numbing passion this one man did with a caress and a kiss. His lips moved from her lips to her neck and down onto her shoulder, where he nuzzled aside the open neck of the shirt to gain access to the tender skin covering her collarbone.
Leigh laced her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, molding him to her, as if drawing him closer would hold him there always. She blanked her mind of the guilt knocking to remind her of its existence and concentrated instead on Matthew.
He pulled back and Leigh felt hot everywhere his searching gaze touched her, but she knew there was more than lust in his assessment of her. There was possessiveness and love and wistful longing—things at which she'd often scoffed and frequently condemned as oppressive. But today, she closed her eyes and enjoyed his appreciation.
"Matthew!" someone shouted from the yard below, and when she opened her eyes, a wagon and team sat in the front yard.
"Just how many people do you know?" she asked as he released her slowly and stepped back.
"Seth! We'll be right there!" he called back.
The couple standing on the porch could have been the models for the portrait American Gothic. He was tall and min, and she was short and work worn, her hair pulled back in a severe bun on the back of her head.
"I come fer my wages," the man stated.
"Of course," Matthew replied. "Leigh, this is Seth Taylor and his wife, Effie. They're our neighbors to the north. Seth helped me with the wheat harvest this year."
Matthew left her on the porch and went inside. Effie Taylor looked Leigh up and down, her lips pursed almost as tightly as her hair was drawn up on her head.
"Are you that mail-order bride Matthew was all atitter about?" she asked, her words dripping with disapproval.
"Yes, I am."
Effie and Seth exchanged looks. "We don't hold with no such goings-on," she said. "I come along so's I could get a good look at you."
"And do I pass your approval?"
Effie blinked once. "Wearin' pants like a man. Sellin' yerself to the highest bidder. I figure that makes you a—"
"Thank you, Seth." Matthew reemerged from the house and placed several coins in Seth's hand. "I might need some help next week moving the hay up in the barn."
Seth cast a sheepish look at his wife, then at Matthew. "I'd be glad to help."
"I'll ride over and get you when I'm ready."
Seth nodded and shuffled toward the wagon, casting embarrassed glances at his wife. "Come along, Effie."
Matthew placed an arm around Leigh's shoulders and pulled her close to his side, defying Effie to comment. Effie turned without further words and followed her husband to the wagon, her gait stiff and her head high.
"Seth's a good man, but Effie's one of the most spiteful women I've ever met."
"Another one of your friends who doesn't care for me."
Matthew chuckled. "I guess I did create a bit of a stir with my correspondence with you. Good old Matthew. Never did a spontaneous thing in his life."
"And I, on the other hand, wear men's pants in public."  Leigh turned to face him, longing to pick up where they'd left off in the field.
Matthew glanced up at the sun. "If we're going to Isaac's house for supper, we'd better be getting ready."
******************
Lazy afternoon rays were slanting across the road as Matthew picked up the reins and clucked to the horses. The wagon strained forward with creaks and groans, and they left the shade of the porch and moved out into the warm, dying sun.
Leigh touched the soft knitted shawl in her lap. The warmth of the day would quickly give way to the chill of evening as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon. She passed her hand over the garment again, marveling that three days ago she'd never even have considered wearing such a fluffy thing. But she was here now and lots of things were changing. She glanced to the wagon bed behind them and the carefully placed blankets.
Isaac's house was smaller than Matthew's but cheery with its brightly lit windows and wide, generous porch. Matthew climbed down from the wagon and tied the team. When he reached up to help her down, Leigh leaned forward, letting her hands drift across his shoulders as he set her on her feet.
Casting her a glance filled with sultry promises, Matthew took her arm and led her into the house.
"Leigh, dear. It's so good to meet you at last." Elizabeth Benton was everything Effie Taylor was not. Cheerful, friendly, and kind, she bustled around them offering food and drink, obviously a wonderful hostess. She clasped Leigh's hand firmly and gave it a comforting squeeze. "Welcome to our community, and we hope that you are very happy here."
Leigh smiled, Elizabeth's enthusiasm catching. "Thank you. I'm sure I will be."
Dinner was elegantly served on a table with real china and a lace tablecloth. Despite her heart being in her throat, Leigh enjoyed the food and the light conversation. When the table was cleared and the dishes washed, Elizabeth dried her hands on a towel and turned to Leigh.
"Now, dear, why don't you tell us all about yourself?"
Chapter Seven
Leigh's heartbeat ticked off the seconds she had left to live and the huge slice of chocolate cake in her dessert plate threatened to leap into her lap. She swallowed and glanced at Matthew's serene face.
"Matthew has told us so much about you, I'm afraid my curiosity has gotten the best of my manners." Elizabeth touched Leigh's shoulder. "Of course you don't have to if it makes you uncomfortable.''
"No, it's quite all right."
"Well, why don't you start by telling us what it's like to live in a city the size of Denver?" Elizabeth leaned back in her upholstered chair and sliced off a piece of cake from the plate in her hand.
Leigh swallowed and squirmed on the settee. So she'd come from Denver. This she could handle.
"It's very busy and crowded. Very noisy. I find that I much prefer it here."
Elizabeth cast a teasing glance at Matthew. "I'm sure you have your reasons for that other than the lack of noise. What kind of work does your father do?"
Leigh searched through her memories of the letters with speed a computer would have envied. Then she remembered Matthew's comment in the barn. "He's a farmer." She slanted a glance at Matthew, but his face remained placid. She relaxed a bit and allowed herself to slip further into the role.
"How many brothers and sisters do you have?"
She remembered a mention of brothers from Matthew and she'd added the sister today in a slip of tongue. Should she repeat her error or hold with her story? "A brother and a sister."
Elizabeth smiled. "A nice balanced family. And are they still at home?"
"My sister is married but my brother is still with my parents."
"Do you miss home very much?"
Leigh glanced at Matthew. "Not as much as I thought I would at first."
Matthew colored and shifted his gaze away from her. The exchange was not lost on Elizabeth, who deftly steered the conversation to the subjects of crops and weather.
The evening passed quickly for all but Leigh. To her, the hours crept past. Then Matthew was announcing that they should get home and Elizabeth was wishing them Godspeed. Isaac saw them to the door with an invitation for another night and they were alone.
The air was brisk, but not uncomfortably cold and a full moon powdered the landscape with silver. Matthew didn't speak and Leigh rode in miserable silence wondering if she had told the truth, lied, or lied outrageously. They were almost home when Matthew drew the team to a stop and turned to her. Even in the dim light, she could see that he studied her face, her eyes.
"What was that back there?"
The world dropped away underneath her and confusion rose to fill the void. Lie about what? She'd lied about so much, how could she possibly know to which incidence he was referring? "I tried to tell you today."
"Your father has been dead for seven years, or at least that's what you wrote to me."
"My father's been dead a long time," she answered truthfully. "I just didn't want her pity."
"You never wrote to me about a sister. You never mentioned her until today in the barn."
"She died in childbirth." Again she spoke the truth.
Matthew studied her for a moment, his brown eyes serious and thoughtful; then he touched her cheek. "You've already become a part of me, Leigh. These few brief hours togeuier, and I love you as I never imagined I'd love. I don't care about your past, only about your future with me."
Then he kissed her, his body trembling with the intensity of long-neglected wants.
******************
Overhead, stars winked knowingly from their celestial vantage points. Beneath the pile of quilts, Leigh moved closer to Matthew, reveling in the intimate sensation of his skin against hers. She smiled into the darkness, remembering the look on Matthew's face when she'd practically dragged him over the wagon seat and into the back, where she'd conveniently placed a stack of folded quilts before leaving home. But his objections had quickly died, to be replaced by loving words, as he made good on his whispered promises.
"You are not the woman I thought I married," Matthew murmured close to her ear.
Unable to decide if she detected approval or disappointment in his voice, Leigh rolled over to face him. "I'm the same woman who promised to love you."
"That part you certainly fulfilled." He drew her tightly against him until his chest hair tickled her skin. But in the dim light, she could not see his face plainly enough to gauge his reaction.
"Where did you learn to do .. . that?" he asked softly.
Leigh's mind skimmed over the last half hour, most of it a haze of pleasure, and she wondered, with a jolt, what had she done? She had a vague memory of a shocked look and a sharp intake of breath on Matthew's part, and after that, decadent pleasure had wiped her memory clean.
"I have a vivid imagination," she murmured against him.
"I'll say." The hint of doubt in his voice rang clear.
Leigh pushed herself up on her hands and leaned over him. "Are you complaining?" she teased.
"No, but I was wondering why here in the wagon?"
"I figured this might be the only place we wouldn't be disturbed."
Matthew wrapped his arms around her and rolled her over beneath him. As she felt his weight upon her and looked up into his eyes, deep and dark with love for her, her heart began to hammer again.
"I had planned for this to happen in our bedroom."
"And it will." Leigh pushed a lock of hair out of his eyes. "Later."
In all her liaisons, no one had ever made her feel with the depth and tenderness that Matthew did. Despite the apparent urgency of his own need, he'd been tender and careful, ever mindful of her wants. And now, as she watched passion cloud his eyes again, she felt somehow disloyal for being more experienced than he.
He began to seduce her again, not with practiced technique or titillating methods, but only with the knowledge that he loved her deeply and truly. And as she was seduced, the guilt mounted.
The wee hours of morning were marked by a deep, thick silence as they pulled the wagon into their yard. Not an insect sang, not a bird stirred as Matthew helped her off the wagon seat.
"I'll put the team up and I'll be right in," Matthew said with a kiss to her cheek and a shy smile.
Leigh climbed the steps, listening to the rattle of the wagon as he led the team around the house toward the barn. The front door scraped open with the same complaining sound and the interior of the house looked the same as when she'd left it this afternoon, but she knew nothing would ever really be the same. She'd consummated this union with Matthew, given herself to him body and heart, and yet she had still not told him the truth about herself.
A sudden panic seized her. Could she live this lie the rest of her life? Could she pretend to be someone else with someone else's past, someone else's memories, until the day she died? Never see home again? Never see another television set? Another automobile? More importandy, could she keep up the pretense forever? No was the answer that ricocheted through her thoughts.
Slowly, she climbed the stairs to their bedroom and lit the lamp by the bed. Their bedroom. Where Matthew would love her every night, if she was any judge. Where they would conceive their children. Where their children would be born. Leigh felt the world collapsing in on her, the weight of it almost unbearable.
She ran a hand over the quilt that waited for her to pull it back and climb into her marriage bed. Leigh raised her eyes to the window, where her reflection stared back at her accusingly. You don't belong here, it seemed to say with a frown.
******************
Matthew's breathing evened out to a gentle whisper and Leigh turned onto her side to study his face one more time. There was no place for her in his world. One day she would bring him heartache, pain he didn't deserve. Better that she leave now and let him think that he hadn't really known the woman he married. Fueled by the anger of desertion, he'd heal quickly and find someone else, someone who belonged in 1899. An odd twist yanked at her heart at the thought of him loving someone else as he'd loved her tonight. But she pushed the thought away, locked it securely behind a door to a room that would soon become full of banished memories.
Exhausted, he'd fallen asleep quickly, but not before he'd made love to her again—in their bed, as he'd said. Now he slept deeply and she knew that this was a time for her escape.
She crept from beneath the covers, careful not to pull any off him and awaken him with a chill. Then she dressed. The floorboards creaked gently as she padded across them, carrying her shoes. When she reached the door, she paused and turned once more to look back, her heart on fire. All she'd ever wanted was in that room, yet it was denied to her because of a misplacement in time and the nagging matter of a truth she could not tell. Steeling her heart against the ache already beginning in its depths, she turned away and crept down the stairs and across the yard.
The barn door swung open easily and the gentle scent of horses and hay poured out, enhanced in the moist predawn air. She had to hurry. Dawn was rapidly chasing away the curtain of night in the east.
She slipped a bridle on Dan and led him out of the barn and down the road to a handy stump. She clamored onto his bare back, grateful for riding lessons in Central Park during one of her "back to basics" periods, and punched him into a jarring trot.
The vegetable stand stood gray and deserted, wisps of tattered burlap twining around it like gentle ghosts. Leigh slid to the ground and looped Dan's reins over the hitching post. Ian was here someplace. She felt it.
As she moved toward the graying structure, the first bits of doubt crept through her, whispering fantastic promises in her ears. If she left now, she could return home, take Dan to the barn, and slip into bed without Matthew's ever knowing she'd been gone. Leigh pushed the nosy voice aside and stepped into the stand. Just as she had known, the pumpkin waited on a dusty shelf, all by itself.
Leigh approached it, reached out a finger, then drew her hand back. Hesitation she could not explain nibbled at her determination.
"I knew you would come," said the familiar voice.
Leigh whirled and stared down at Ian.
"So you have decided to return." His eyes were sad; his countenance was defeated.
"Yes. I have no place here. It's not like you said. I don't belong here."
He shook his head slowly. "Yes, you do, child. But you are accustomed to listening to your mind and not your heart. You have not yet learned the difference."
"I just want to go back home."
Ian moved a step closer and looked up at her. "To what do you return, Leigh?"
"To my . . . life, my career, my friends."
Ian jerked his head to one side. "Back there you exist— you do not live. No one waits for you. No one watches or prays or hopes for you."
"You make my life sound miserable. I wasn't unhappy. In fact, I was very happy and very successful."
"If you were taken away and locked up, never to see the light of day again, and you could take one thing or person with you, what or who would that be? What is the one thing you value most."
His question stunned her. Her thoughts churned, her mind sifting through the past twenty years of her life. But always her thoughts settled on one thing. Buried beneath a stack of out-of-date magazines in her apartment was a seldom seen photo album. In it were chronicled the brief span of years that her family was complete. There were pictures from her childhood, pictures of her sister and the rest of her family. All seemingly neglected and dusty, but precious beyond value.
"A photo album of my family."
"And are the pictures mounted on paper of silver or are they printed with ink of gold? Is it the book you value so much or is it how it makes you feel to hold it, to open its cover and see familiar faces smiling up at you?"
A lump sprang to her throat as the memory of those pictures came to her, as clear as if she were holding the old volume in her hand. "Don't play mind games with me, Ian. I see what you're trying to do and it won't work. I can't stay here. Don't you see? It isn't fair to Matthew. He thinks he's married his Leigh Hunter. How can I ever tell him the truth and then how can I not?"
Ian smiled. "The heart has ways of overlooking things obvious to one not smitten. You think too much, Leigh Hunter. Don't think. Feel."
Leigh shook her head vigorously. "I don't want to think or feel. I just want to go home and be done with all of this."
She stepped forward toward the pumpkin, which was out of place in the drab shelter. Before her fingers touched its skin, she felt the tingle she remembered from before, the magnetic pull. She closed her eyes, silently praying that, as she moved back through time, her memories would be erased and she wouldn't remember Matthew Sutton or how it felt to be his wife.
"Leigh?"
Matthew's voice rubbed across her skin like warm velvet. "What are you doing here?"
She opened her eyes. She was standing on Main Street, dressed only in her nightgown, her feet bare in the fine dust. In front of her sat the pumpkin, waiting. Dawn had come and gone and so had Ian.
Leigh glanced around, but the little man was nowhere to be seen.
"Leigh?"
"Leave me alone, Matthew," Leigh said, moving a step closer to the pumpkin.
"Don't touch it!" Matthew shouted and she turned.
"How . .. ?"
Matthew spread his hands helplessly. "I don't know how I know, but I know you shouldn't touch it"
Tears flooded her eyes and she felt torn in two directions. "I have to go, Matthew."
"No, you don't."
"I'm not who you think I am." The tears were flooding down her cheeks, muddling her mind and making it hard to explain. "I'm not Leigh Hunter." She reached toward the pumpkin.
"I know you're not" Matthew lunged forward a step, one hand outstretched. "I mean I know you're not the same woman I corresponded with and I don't care. I don't want to know what happened to her or what went on between the two of you. I only know that I want you to stay here with me. And I don't know how I know, but if you touch that pumpkin, you won't be here with me anymore."
"Go away, Matthew. Go back home."
"I can't. You're here. Home is wherever you are now, Leigh."
The suppressed sobs were choking off her air and her head was aching. Tears fogged her vision. Matthew's face was distorted, but not enough to mask the pain in his eyes.
"Good-bye, Matthew." Her fingers closed around the pumpkin, and she felt its magic seize her.
The skin was smooth and cool and her consciousness began to whirl, colors blending and arching. The world beneath her dropped away, and she floated, suspended in time and space. Fragments of the last few days unraveled within her, speeding through her mind, accompanied by the emotions each had evoked, alternately soothing and stabbing her in the heart: Matthew's whisper that she was his first lover; the trembling touch of his hand as he slid the ring on her finger; the Smith sisters' voices as they'd hovered over her; her last day in the office arguing with Mike; an endless, lonely weekend during which she'd cried over old movies; her sister's face.
******************
A warm kiss on Leigh's cheek roused her, and she opened her eyes to stare into Matthew's warm brown ones. 
"Where am I?"
He frowned, his brows knitting together. "In our bed." 
The memories of making love to him last night rushed back, and Leigh felt her cheeks redden and then blaze. What had possessed her to do the things she'd done to Matthew? And where had she gotten the ideas?
"I'm glad I made you blush," he said with obvious pride. Then he sprawled onto the bed beside her, fully dressed.
"You're already up?" Leigh asked, observing that he wore his work clothes.
He nodded, twirling a tendril of her hair between his fingers, his chin propped in his hand. "It's long past noon. I let you sleep late." He waggled an eyebrow at her and she laughed; then another memory stole her happiness.
"Was I in town this morning?"
He nodded, his face suddenly serious.
"Why was I there?"
He shook his head, his gaze never leaving her face. "I don't know. I was hoping you could tell me."
Leigh frowned. Her memory of this morning was foggy and confused. She remembered being desperate; she could remember the emotion, but not the details of what spawned it. She remembered an old man and a pumpkin.. . .
Then full recollection returned. She stared at Matthew, his eyes full of love and tenderness, and remembered Ian's words.
"What's that?" Matthew nodded toward the bedside table. An old photo album lay there, its edges frayed and tattered.
Leigh scooted up in bed, tucked the quilt securely around her, and picked up the album. A parade of faces filled the pages, each one bringing tears flooding to her eves. The clothes and surroundings in the pictures were those of the time period, but the faces were her parents, mends, and sister.
"Is this your family?" Matthew asked, pointing at a picture of a man and woman standing in front of an eighteenth-century house instead of the fifties ranch on Maple Street.
"Yes, they are."
"And this must be your sister?"
He pointed at a portrait of a smiling young woman, large with child. Leigh remembered the day the picture had been taken. Karen had been standing outside her house, a huge white Victorian she and her husband had slaved to remodel. Now Karen smiled from in front of the same house, only her clothes reflected the 1890s.
"Yes, it is. Isn't she pretty? She was so happy here."
Matthew kissed her temple and pulled her back against him. "Tell me about her."
Leigh slowly closed the album and placed it on the table as a rush of happy memories returned. And as Matthew pulled her back against him, she heard the door to yesterday shut with a gentle click.