A TIME FOR LOVE


        by Constance O'Day-Flannery




       BOOK JACKET INFORMATION

  Elizabeth Mackenzie had decided long
ago that happily-ever-after was just an illusion. Her
career was what mattered, and the ambition that had
carried her through many a lonely Saturday night
brought her out west to land a new account for her
firm. Then a force greater than anything she'd ever
imagined took her even further ... back in time
to 1876 ... and into the life of Jordan
McCabe. Mistaken for the proxy bride of the
handsome Texas rancher, Elizabeth found a
passion powerful enough to make her believe in love.
But could she sacrifice all she had known for a
fragile dream? As she struggled to understand the
choices that lay ahead, Elizabeth came face
to face with her own destiny ... and the desires that
tempted her to surrender her very soul!

       RAVES FOR BESTSELLING,
         AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR
        Constance O'Day-Flannery

  "HER CHARACTERS ARE SUPERB!"
      --Rendezvous

  "SHE HAS "THE MAGIC.""
      --Romantic Times

  "ENJOYABLE AND ENTERTAINING!"
      --Publishers Weekly

  "AN AUTHOR OF INCREDIBLE
TALENT!"
    --ROMANTIC TIMES























  FOR T. S.--who taught me the true
meaning of self-esteem and sacrifice.
Thank you for the laughter and the love.














            ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  CARIN, ROBERTA AND WALTER--FOR their
patience and understanding.

  COLLEEN AND LINDA--FOR believing I could
do it, in spite of everything.

  ADELE--FOR THE laughter and encouragement, and
working with me through an impossible situation.

  HY LIT--A legendary disk jockey in
Philadelphia--for taking the time, and sharing with me
a wealth of research. It was truly
appreciated.

  AND MY FAMILY AND FRIENDS ...
Thanks for always being there, for believing in me when
I forgot to believe in myself. Each one of you share
in this one.





          A TIME FOR LOVE

              Chapter 1

  She should have known that day would irreversibly
change her life. There should have been some warning.
But then, back in the beginning, she had been such an
innocent ...
  The fear rose up inside her, like an invisible
monster that clutched at her chest and possessed her
imagination. Every instinct was telling her to get up and
leave--to run. But then she was here, in this place,
this position, out of need ... a desperate,
undeniable need.
  "It's okay. Just relax." The voice was
soft, soothing, and meant to weaken her resistance.
"I can't get it in. Open wider ...
please?"
  Elizabeth Mackenzie looked up into the
brown eyes of the man above her and shook her head.
"I'm sorry. You're so patient and I'm so
..." Her voice trailed off as she mentally
searched for the proper word.
  "Frightened?" The man supplied it.
  She nodded. "I know it's silly. I'm
supposed to be an adult and everything, but being here,
in this place, terrifies me."
  "Elizabeth ..." He smiled at her.
"Are you always called Elizabeth? Do you have a
nickname?"
  She started to shake her head, then stopped.
"My ... my family calls me Elle."
  "Ellie?"
  She shrugged. "Sounds the same, just spelled
differently. My cousin couldn't pronounce
Elizabeth, so El became Elle and stuck,
unfortunately." Convinced that she was beginning to sound
like a babbling idiot, she murmured, "I don't
usually tell anyone ..."
  He grinned. "You don't know me very well and
it must be hard for you to trust, but all I want to do
right now, Elle, is take an x-ray of your
tooth. I can promise you this won't hurt."
  His expression was kind, like a parent, yet all
she could envision at the moment was the large, dark
man who had yelled at her to stop crying ... the
dentist who had slapped her twelve-year-old
hands and then made her sit on them while he
pulled a permanent molar from her mouth. It was because
of that nightmare that she was fanatical about her
teeth, for she had made a childhood vow
never to endure a repeat performance.
  "Look, you came in here because you were in pain. I
can't properly treat you without knowing exactly
what's causing your discomfort, can I?"
  Trying to be reasonable, Elle shook her
head. She knew an x-ray was painless. "I'm
sorry. Of course, you can take it." And she
slowly opened her mouth to show her trust.
  Within thirty seconds it was over and Elle
breathed a sigh of relief as she watched Dr.
Eisenberg or Macdade walk out of the office
to develop the x-ray. She felt foolish for
acting like a child and even more so for having forgotten the
dentist's name. Now she was far too embarrassed
to ask him to repeat it. She figured the easiest
way was to wait until his assistant called out
to him. Unfortunately, that hadn't happened yet.
  Resting her head back against the chair, Elle
closed her eyes rather than look at all the
frightening equipment that surrounded her. It looked
right out of Star Wars. Drilling. Probing.
Hi-tech torture. As the throbbing in her
cheekbone continued, she took a deep breath and
told herself that she hadn't any other choice. She
simply could not function with this kind of pain, let
alone make a presentation to the head buyer of
Mictronix Communications tomorrow morning.
  Wichita, Kansas. She would probably
laugh about this sometime, but not now. Maybe back in
Pennsylvania. Nobody in the office had
wanted to make this trip, but Elle had thought the
personal presentation was necessary to close the deal.
Five years ago Mictronix had been a
small communications company. Today, it was a
valuable account, and Elle wanted it to be hers.
Three years ago when she'd accepted the position
of Computer Sales Rep for Keystone, she
hadn't realized that she would be the only woman in
an office of twenty competitive men. And right
now, back in Pennsylvania, there were ten of them
that didn't think she had a chance at landing the
account. It hadn't been easy, but she'd won the
respect of most of the other reps. And she'd done
that by working just as hard as any of them, by taking
advantage of every opportunity; by working at
night, preparing, while everyone else in the
universe had a social life. And now this disaster
...
  The filling had been cracked for weeks, but
she'd fooled herself inffbelieving that if she was
fastidious about her dental hygiene, it would all
go away. Last night when she'd finally reached her
hotel, all she could think about was room service
and a hot bath--in that order. Maybe she should have
ordered something soft, like what older people with dental
problems eat. Maybe then the filling would not have
left the molar and mingled with her BLT. The shock
of running the tip of her tongue around what seemed
like a crater in her back molar was nothing compared
to the pain that had started two hours later. She had
spent a sleepless night, devouring Tylenol,
pressing warm wash cloths to her cheekbone, and then
switching to cold when nothing else worked. And nothing
did. By dawn she was rolling from side to side in
agony and, down deep, she knew the sharp ache that
was paralyzing part of her face was not going to go
away.
  She'd finally called the front desk and they
had read her a list of emergency dentists. The
manager had recommended the offices of Drs.
Eisenberg and Macdade. He had said his wife
and son were very happy with their services. It was beyond
her comprehension how a child could be happy with a
dentist, but at the time it had sounded like a pretty
solid recommendation. A Pediatric Dentist.
That was just about right for a twenty-nine-year-old
coward. When the cab had pulled up to the office
she had initially thought the driver had made a
mistake. It was in a renovated train station. The
Victorian building with its gingerbread trim was
now a dental office. It was charming inside,
decorated in late-nineteenth-century country and
far less frightening than a typical medical
facility. Even the receptionist worked behind a
glass ticket window that looked like the original.
Miniature silent trains ran over tracks that
bordered the ceiling. The multicolored cars
weaved in and out of tunnels and disappeared into the
recesses of the offices. As she waited to be
called, she found herself staring at the ceiling,
waiting for the train to re-enter the reception area.
How she wished she could shrink to its size. And when
it came into this examining room, she would hop on
board and be swept away ... away from here.
Away from the pain, the--
  "Elle? I'm afraid I don't have good
news."
  She opened her eyes and saw sympathy in the
expression of the nameless dentist. Forgetting about her
fantasy, she clutched the fake leather
arms of the chair. "Doctor?"
  He sat down next to her on a small
movable stool. Holding up the x-ray for her
to see, he said, "There's no other way to put this,
except to say it--"
  "I don't think I want you to," Elle
interrupted. It already sounded ominous and she
straightened in the chair as he prepared to speak.
  "How old was that filling?" the doctor asked,
switching to another tack.
  She tried to remember, but her nerves were shot
... along with her memory. "I don't know. I
think I was fifteen, or sixteen." What was he
trying to say to her?
  The kindly man looked down to her chart. "And
you're thirty now--"
  "Twenty-nine," she insisted. "Until next
week."
  He nodded. "Elle, that restoration was at least
fifteen years old. It should have been replaced
years ago. As it is," and he shook his head
sadly, "I'm afraid there isn't any way
to save that tooth."
  "What?" Her fingernails sank into the arms of the
chair and her entire body tensed, as if shocked
with an electrical current.
  He came closer and patted her hand in
sympathy. "I know this seems drastic to you, but
there really isn't any other way. I wouldn't
even suggest root canal. I believe the
decay has gone too far. And even that wouldn't
completely solve your problem, because the pain would
continue until the entire root was removed. It
would take more than one visit. Your own dentist
could complete the procedure and then place a crown
on it, but you risk infection, especially flying
back to Pennsylvania. In many cases such as this
the air pressure of the cabin magnifies the
problem."
  "You--you couldn't save it?" she whispered in a
frightened voice.
  He shook his head. "I wouldn't recommend
trying. It isn't an easy procedure to begin
with, and you'd be doing it for a tooth that, in my
opinion, is beyond saving. You stand a very good chance of
losing that tooth even if you decide on root
canal."
  She stared into his eyes. They were kind eyes,
behind brown tortoise shell glasses. And his
smile was warm and sympathetic. He was about
her height, and not handsome in the conventional way.
He would never make the cover of GQ, but he
probably made some woman a great husband.
He was a man to be trusted. As if on cue, the
pain in her upper jaw increased and she said in a
small voice, "I'm very, very frightened of
dentists. I'm sorry, but I am. I want
to say take it out and stop the pain, but I keep
remembering this incident from my past."
  She told him her horror story and drew
strength from the angry expression on his face.
When she was finished, she watched as he shook his
head, as if deploring such actions, and leaned
closer to her.
  "Listen, Elle, I'm sorry you ever had to go
through something like that. I completely understand how you
feel, but I want you to know that most dentists today
would never act so unprofessionally. You would be
completely anesthetized. There are methods such as
gas ... you could even be put to sleep--though I
don't think we would have to go that far for this
procedure."
  She immediately perked up. "Put to sleep? You
mean I won't feel anything?"
  He looked at her chart before answering.
"Remember when we took your blood
pressure?"
  She nodded.
  "It was slightly elevated. Now, considering
your fear, that could account for the rise, but I'd rather just
use sweet air--nitrous oxide. You won't
need anything else, Elle. Trust me."
  She wanted to. The throbbing in her cheek was
becoming unbearable. She hadn't had any sleep
and she was tired of fighting the pain and her fear.
If she could just trust him ...
  "Okay. Take it out."
  He smiled. "It's going to be all right,
Elle. You'll see."
  She was breathing through a rubber mask and floating,
up above the chair and sweet Dr. Eisenberg or
Macdade. It felt wonderful, a little
sexual, as if she'd had three or four quick
drinks and she didn't really care that the good
doctor was telling her to open wide. She knew
he held a syringe behind his back, knew the tip
of it was going to puncture her gum, and she wanted
to tell him not to hide it from her. But he was so
nice, so sweet. He didn't want to frighten
her. And she again thought how lucky his wife
was. He was probably very attentive, very
sensitive ... Why was it that the men she found were more
concerned about their own egos, and about as sensitive as
a charging water buffalo?
  She was alone. It was her choice ... well,
almost. She just hadn't met anyone yet that she could
trust with the rest of her life. Long ago she had
made her peace with life. She wasn't foolish
enough to believe that a woman could really have it all.
Something always had to give, and Elle had promised
herself that she wouldn't make the same mistakes as
her mother. She was convinced that she could make it if
she protected herself, for she didn't think she would
be able to withstand any more heartache. She liked herself.
Well, most of the time she liked herself. She
didn't need a man to be complete. She
supposed being alone was better than doing
laundry for someone who drank beer on her living
room couch while watching Monday Night
Football. Okay, so that might be overstating it
but she would just bet that even Carl Sagan indulged
in an occasional Monday Night Male
Bacchanalia. She didn't want to do anyone
else's laundry, and she had little patience for the
macho ego. But right now, at this moment, she could
certainly use someone's arms around her. Someone
to tell her that it was going to be okay ... but she
would handle it, just like she'd had to handle every other
emergency. That's what happens when you're alone.
You learn how to get through with the least amount of pain.
She deeply inhaled the sweet air as images
of water buffalo roaming her beautiful living
room rose up in her mind. Beer-guzzling
water buffalo ... Her imagination grew
fertile and she giggled.
  "Enjoying yourself, Elle?" From very far off she
heard the doctor's voice.
  She nodded. "This is wonderful." Every word
seemed distant and her lips tingled, as if just
kissed.
  She thought she heard the young dental assistant
laugh and Elle smiled. Wasn't everyone so
nice here? Didn't everything seem better already?
  "Do you think you could open very wide now?"
  "Oh, yes," she answered in a deep
obliging voice. She would have done anything they
asked.
  She felt the pinch of the needle. It hurt.
She didn't care. If they had wanted
to remove every tooth in her mouth she would have
let them. She was soaring. As they waited for the
Novocaine to take effect, Elle watched the
tiny train appear at the ceiling and she wanted
to smile, but her lips felt big and puffy--a
nice kind of puffy, just awkward. She liked that
train. She liked this office. Why were the lights
flickering? Wasn't that odd? She was giddy and
feeling wonderfully foolish.
  "Am I drunk, or are the lights going off
and on?"
  "There's a storm outside. Breathe through your
nose, Elle. Take nice deep breaths."
  A storm. How pleasant ... She had always
loved the sound of rain on the roof. It was great for
lovemaking ... Oh, yeah. Right. As if she'd
had a lot of practice. As if a man had
touched her in almost a year. She hadn't even
shaken hands with a male that wasn't friendly and
businesslike. Maybe she put them off.
Intimidated them. Maybe--
  "Nice deep breaths. C'mon."
  Inhaling, she did as she was told and listened as
the doctor instructed his assistant to check on the
auxiliary generator, in case they lost power.
Who cared? Elle thought. Just as long as the gas
lines continued to work. She closed her eyes and
enjoyed the sense of freedom--freedom from
worry, responsibilities, pain.
  "Okay, Elle. Open again. This time stay
open."
  She felt the probing, the pressure,
eventually heard a crack, and then the dear
doctor was telling her that he was taking two
stitches, and that her own dentist could check to see that
they dissolved. The unseen assistant lifted the
mask away from her nose and she was told that it was
all over.
  She blinked several times in disbelief and
actual disappointment as she clamped down on a
large wad of gauze.
  "You did very well, Elle. Now just sit here
for a few minutes until the gas leaves your
System--I don't believe this! Don't
move."
  She was confused. Only moments before she had
been floating in a warm haze of contentment and now
she was cast into a cold darkness. Everything stopped.
The train halted upon its approach into the room,
the lights flickered out, the music ceased.
  "Waas amatter?" she mumbled into the
darkness as she brought her fingers up to her mouth
to check her swollen lips. She had the oddest
sensation that she was dribbling.
  From very far away she heard the dentist say that
they had lost the electricity and Elle closed
her eyes, trying to recapture that feeling of
security that she'd had only minutes ago. No
matter how hard she tried, it didn't work. She
was confused. She felt dizzy and frightened, and she
didn't like being in the dark. Shivering, Elle could
hear the storm raging outside. It was like the roar
of a train. It sounded just like a train outside.
  For a moment, her heart skipped a beat before
thundering on. Didn't they say tornadoes sounded
like trains? And wasn't this Kansas?
  Kansas! Tornadoes!
  Her eyes opened in horror. Dear God!
She was getting out now! Pushing herself up from the
chair, Elle's shoulder hit the movable tray and
she shoved it away. She reached out in the darkness,
like a blind person, to find her way, all the while
attempting to call out in her mumbled, garbled
fashion. "Hey, waas happanin out dere?"
She realized her voice sounded like a cheap
imitation of the Cosby dental skit, yet she
sputtered on, fighting against the thickness of her
lips to speak.
  "Wilw someone anther me? Where is evwy
one?"
  As if in response, the sound of shattering
glass broke through the eerie stillness and was almost
immediately followed by a blast of wind whirling through the
room, a wind so strong, so powerful, that it
knocked Elle to her knees. A brief flash
of brilliant light crackled around her causing
her to hide her eyes against her arm and hold her
breath against whatever force was in that room. Clutching
the doorjamb, she hung on for dear life and it
was only moments later that the wind subsided as
quickly as it had come. Frightened, she slowly lifted
her head. From far off she heard the sound of
voices and Elle breathed a sigh of relief.
She was alive. She was okay. Whatever had
happened, she had survived. Finally, she
released her breath.
  God, how she hated dentists' offices!
  Fighting a wave of dizziness, Elle very
slowly rose to her feet. In the dim light she
brushed back her hair and smoothed down her
slacks. She had to get out of here. Without
the numbing effect of the gas, this dental office was
even worse than the others. Maybe they forgot
about her. She was obviously finished. Perhaps she was
supposed to just go out to the receptionist and pay?
  More than a little confused, Elle used her hand
to guide her along the wall and leave the examining
room. There was light, a dim light in the distance.
Maybe she should move toward it. She had gone
no more than two feet into the hallway when she
stopped and stared at the incredible, unbelievable,
sight before her.
  People, dressed in old-fashioned clothes--women
in floor-length dark dresses and bonnets, men
in suits or cowboy outfits--were milling about
a waiting room--only it wasn't the waiting
room she had left earlier in the morning. The
comfortable cushioned chairs were gone, replaced
by hard wooden benches. The receptionist in her
crisp white uniform was now an elderly man with a
huge gray handlebar mustache.
  Everyone, everything familiar was ... gone!



              Chapter 2

  "I don't know, Traver. You think it's
her?"
  The old man wiped the side of his leather
glove over his mouth to muffle his words. "Sheeet,
boy, look at 'er! If that's the new missus,
then the Cap'n is in for one hell of a
surprise."
  Kyle Reavis jammed his thumbs behind the thin
cord that tied his chaps together and slumped his
shoulders with indecision. She was wearing pants!
Trousers! "Well, what'll we do?" he
demanded of his older, hopefully wiser,
companion. From the corner of his eye, he glanced
back at the woman. She was the only one in the
depot close to the right age. All the rest of the
females were either too old or too young. But
Traver was right. If this one was the Cap'n's, then
all hell would break loose once they got
back to the herd outside of town.
  "I say you go over there, boy, and find out."
  Kyle quickly straightened and shook his head.
"Not me. You go."
  Traver Diggs glared at the youngster. Almost
nineteen, Kyle still hadn't learned
to follow orders and that annoyed the hell out of
Traver--especially since he'd been assigned
to teach the lad on this last drive to Wichita.
After three months on the trail and almost another
month in this cow town, it was past time to go home,
back to the Triple Cross. "Go over and ask
if she's Cap'n McCabe's new bride.
That's clear enough."
  "I will not ask such a question," Kyle mumbled
back. "If'n it ain't her I'd look the
fool. I don't know why the Cap'n had to go
marry some stranger anyhow. Lucia was more'n
happy--"
  "Shut your mouth, Kyle Reavis," Traver
admonished. "Don't you ever bring up Lucia in
front of this woman!"
  Kyle rolled his eyes toward the wooden
ceiling. "We don't even know if'n it is her,
so don't yell at me, you old fool."
  He'd let the boy get away with too much
over the years. It was plain as day to Traver that
he had been lax in his teaching. Ever since he and the
Cap'n had come across the skinny little yearling wandering
out on the prairie after his folks was killed ...
well, he had a soft spot for the youngster. He had
treated Kyle almost like a son--considering his age,
maybe a grandson. Anyway, he'd have
to straighten the kid out real quick, 'cause Kyle
Reavis was near a man. And it was time to act like
one.
  "You want to go back to the Cap'n and tell him
we didn't get his woman?"
  "Proxy bride." Kyle's mouth screwed
up with distaste. "That's the way them immigrants
get hitched. Ain't fittin' that the Cap'n
advertise for a wife. Just ain't fittin'."
  Traver raised a single bushy, gray
eyebrow. "Cap'n ask your opinion, did
he?"
  "'Course he didn't."
  "Then you stop flappin' about what's none of your
business and come with me. And brush back that mess
of hair from your eyes, boy. We're about to meet
the new missus."
  Traver glared at Kyle with a murderous
expression that clearly stated he was to follow.
Both men were nervous and clutched at worn
wide-brimmed hats as they approached the
strange woman who stood alone by the wall.
  She was dressed in a man's suit of
clothes. Imagine! Navy blue trousers and an
odd suit jacket that had a pin on the breast
pocket. The bar of multicolored ribbons
resembled one Traver had once seen on the chest
of a naval officer. How this woman had come to wear
something that belonged to a military man was beyond him.
It even had a strange, tiny, bronze animal
hanging from it. Around her neck was a chain of
silver which clipped to a large blue paper that lay
on her upper chest. She wore a paper napkin
as easily as other women wear pearl
necklaces! The poor Cap'n! The only
woman things about her were the frilly lace collar
of her white blouse and the long brown hair that was
streaked blond in places by the sun. Even though
her lips looked larger on one side than the
other, she did have a sort of pretty face,
square-jawed, like she could be real stubborn if she
put her mind to it. Her cheekbones were high, kind
of like the Indians or them Russian farmers they
had passed on the drive north. Her face was
flushed a pretty pink, but as they got closer,
Traver could see that she was even more nervous than
him and Kyle. The woman's wide
amber-colored eyes showed fear.
  "You waitin' for Cap'n McCabe,
ma'am?"
  She blinked several times at the cowboys. The
one that spoke was old, his skin weathered like a
shelled walnut. His nose and ears seemed too
big for his face, as if they had kept growing
while the rest of him had aged and shrunk. He
wore a plaid shirt and leather leggings, just like the
younger one--only the young one's had fringe at the
bottom. The leggings, they were called chaps, she
thought, were tied together right below a huge belt
buckle and worn tan leather gloves were casually
tucked behind the string at their groin. Both had
wide-brimmed hats that they held at their side.
The young one nervously tapped it against his leg as
they both waited for her answer. They each looked
like they had stepped off a movie set and,
despite her fear, she recognized a tiny
fascination. These people could see and hear her, and they
expected an answer. She was to actively
participate in this dream. Her observation was made
in mere seconds, yet it seemed like minutes before
she could get her mouth to work properly.
  "Macdabe?" she tried to pronounce through her
thick, numb lips. "Eisenberg and
Macdade? The demmtipts?" She wiped her
mouth and tried again. "Dentists?"
  The cowboys first stared at her and then cast
alarmed glances at each other. "We're here
to take you to Cap'n McCabe, ma'am," the
old one volunteered. "McCabe, right?"
  Elle swallowed down and shifted the wad of
gauze in her cheek. "Macdabe. Right." They
would take her back to the dentist. Once again
experiencing that odd sensation, she touched the corner
of her puffy lips to check for dribble. She was
embarrassed by their looks of bewilderment and tried
to explain. "My mouff, you know?"
  "Yes'm," the younger one said, before clearing his
throat and glancing at his companion. "Traver?"
  The one named Traver stared at her long and hard
before abruptly nodding. "We'd best take her.
Let Cap'n McCabe decide what to do."
  The old cowboy motioned with his hands for her
to follow and Elle moved forward, convinced that she was
still under the effects of the gas. What other reason
could there be for all these strange people, in their strange
clothing, giving her even stranger looks as she
passed them by?
  There isn't any other explanation, she
reasoned as she walked between the two men out of the
building and into the street. She was obviously
hallucinating. Soon, she would wake up back
in the dentist's chair and be told it was all over.
  In the meantime, she decided it wouldn't hurt
to follow these fascinating men. Elle was amazed
by the power of her mind, her imagination. Never would
she have believed that she possessed such highly
developed faculties. Having never done
drugs ... well, once she'd tried pot in
college and had found it only made her
hungry, then extremely tired. She'd had the
sense to realize it wasn't an experience that she
ever wanted to repeat, so her life had remained
drug free in an era when yuppies and pushers were
doing big business. But this ... what she was
experiencing now ... this was probably what
everybody in the sixties was talking about when they
described "tripping."
  And it was certainly turning into one hell of a
trip ...
  It wasn't frightening, or painful. Instead,
Elle was filled with a sense of awe, of wonder,
as she viewed her surroundings. She was led out
onto a dirt road and she paused
to look back at the train depot. No longer was
it the Victorian building with its lacy
gingerbread. Now it was just a plain white frame
structure, with the word Wichita in large block
letters painted on the front. Across the street was
another building with a sign that read, Charles
Marsh--Coal Dispenser/business Manager for the
Santa Fe Line. On either side of the street
were long lines of railroad cars, the boxcars
filled with cattle. Men, some in dark suits, but
most in cowboy outfits, appeared preoccupied as
they went about their day as if nothing out of the ordinary
were happening. There were horses and wagons and the
distinct odor of animals. Lots of animals.
It was simply incredible. Never before had her
dreams been this vivid, nor her senses more
acute.
  "Can I help you up on the buckboard,
ma'am?" the young cowboy asked in a polite
voice.
  She turned away from the depot and smiled.
"Thanks," she said while holding out her hand.
Elle settled onto the wooden seat next to the
older of the two men and grinned. Who'd believe
it? She had to be dreaming, imagining this old town
while a dentist yanked out her tooth! Talk about
the miracle of modern dentistry. Vaguely, as
her tongue again touched the wad of gauze in her
cheek, she wondered why the gauze was in her mouth
in the first place. ... Something was weird, but she
shook off the notion and decided to stop questioning and just go
with the flow. Whatever was happening to her now had to be
easier than being awake, and watching a stranger
pull out a tooth that she had grown very used to in the
last two decades. Yes. Sweet air, the
dentist had called it, was sweet indeed and she
didn't want any part of reality just yet.
  "No other baggage?" the man named Traver
asked, interrupting her thoughts. How clever. Her
subconscious had even named these two men.
  She smiled and shook her head.
  Traver nodded. "Your trunk, it came three
days ago and we brung it already. The Cap'n said
we was to apologize if you were on this last train.
'Cause of the storm and everything, he had to stay out
with the herd. Near stampeded into the Arkansas
River." Traver flicked the reins over the
horse's back. "Them Herefords, they hate
lightning. Spook real easy. Even more'n the
Longhorns."
  Elle didn't know what she was supposed
to say, so she merely nodded. Why was he telling
her this?
  "He waited three days for you to come. In town,
here at the hotel. And got mighty worried when
your trunk come off that train without you. We all
figured something was mixed up. If it weren't for this
emergency, well, he sure enough would've met you
hisself."
  She wasn't listening to the younger cowboy.
Grabbing hold of the edge of the seat, Elle hung
on as the buckboard started moving up the wide
main street of the town. The buildings were mostly of
wood, very few of brick, and almost all two
stories. There were businesses and saloons, and on
the corner was a huge place called The New
York Store--a dry goods and clothing
emporium. Elle grinned. What a great
imagination she had! One place advertised in
huge letters: Guns, Pistols, Ammunition,
Hardware and Tinware. The people on the wooden
sidewalk in front of the establishment stopped and
stared as she drove by. Some of the men wore large
white aprons and the women were dressed in dark
gray or brown dresses with little or no other
color. They looked at her as if she were the odd
one, the person out of place. She could only
smile, or try to smile, since her mouth was still
numb. She raised her hand to wave, but
hesitated for fear of overdoing it. Instead, she'd
just let the experience continue until they woke her
up.
  Beginning to enjoy herself, Elle watched the men and
women on the street, real characters taken right out of every
Western movie or television series she had
ever seen. As they weaved in and around other wagons
or men on horseback, she listened to the sounds
of the wagon wheels squishing in the muddy ruts on
the streets. She heard the flicks of leather against
hides, the ring of metal spurs and the murmuring of
low voices all blending together into a delightful and
noisy reverberation of humanity. As they left
what was the center of town, Elle even
recognized what must have been a brothel. Up on
the second floor two women sat on
windowsills, looking bored, and Elle glanced
up and smiled. Their faces showed their shock and they
stared at her with what could only be described as
intense interest.
  Suddenly, without any warning whatsoever,
a man came flying out the wide door of the house
and tumbled into the street right in front of their
horse. Elle tried to scream, but the sound that
came out of her mouth sounded more like a high,
strangled gurgle.
  "Damnation!" Traver muttered as he fought
to bring the horse under control. The old man used
considerable strength to stop the beast from crushing the
body in the mud. Within seconds, the horse
slowed and the wagon came to a stop off to one side
of the dirt road.
  Elle gulped in air and hung on to the seat for
dear life as she listened to Kyle yell out from the
back of the wagon. "What the samhill you doing,
Jake Beard? We could've killed him!
Maybe us, too!"
  A huge red-haired man with a long beard of the
same unusual color stood in front of the
brothel door. His hands were on his hips and Elle
could see that he wore a gun strapped under his
large belly.
  "Bill Armstrong's been gettin' a mite
too rough for the ladies. Only doin' my job,
is all. What'cha got there, Kyle Reavis?
I can't tell if it be man or woman."
  Elle listened to the red-haired man's laughter
and watched as the one named Bill Armstrong
struggled to his feet. She could almost feel
Traver stiffen next to her as he yelled back,
"Watch your mouth, Jake, or you'll answer
to Cap'n McCabe."
  "Cap'n McCabe? This here's the one he's
been waitin' for? She's the one?"
  Elle watched the man named Bill Armstrong
straighten out and brush the mud from his jacket
sleeve. When he looked up at them, she
couldn't suppress a shiver of distaste. He must
have been in his forties, yet he could have been younger and
just looked aged by the sun. His skin was a deep
leathery brown; his hair a strange blond, almost
white. He was dressed in all black, except
for a red handkerchief that he checked to make sure was
still there before stuffing it deeper into his chest pocket.
His eyes were cold and angry; his jaw set in a
fierce, grim line. Never in her sheltered life
had anyone frightened her like this, and Elle felt
foolish--for in a strange way, she was
mesmerized by the malevolence in his expression.
He seemed to dismiss her and drag his attention
back to the red-haired man who had thrown
him into the street. The same man who was still shouting
things to Traver and Kyle. Things that sounded
vaguely insulting to her, yet she couldn't
figure out why ...
  And then, the oddest thing happened. As casually as
if he were taking out a pack of cigarettes, the
white-haired man pulled out a small pistol from
his coat. Even from five yards away she could
make out the carved ivory handle.
  "Hey," Elle tried to interrupt as she
pointed across the muddy street. "He hath a gum
... a gun!"
  Traver immediately yelled out to the horse and
pulled the wagon away. It all took place
so quickly that she would later question whether it ever
happened, but for the moment Elle clutched at the
rim of the wooden seat and clung to it as the wagon
sped down the street, away from whatever was happening
behind her. She involuntarily jerked around when she
heard the loud explosion of gunfire, but Kyle
grabbed hold of her shoulders to keep her from seeing
beyond him.
  "Nothing you should witness, ma'am. Just appears
like Boot Hill got another citizen, is
all."
  The town passed in a blur as people came out of the
stores and ran toward the brothel. Elle didn't
look back. It didn't happen. It couldn't
have. She did not just see two men shooting at each
other. This was only taking place in her head, in
her imagination. All she had to do was remember that
and stay calm.
  She stared at the rear end of the horse, watching
its hind muscles undulate, the sheen of sweat
appear on its brown hair as they left the town
behind them. Even though she didn't know that much about
drugs, Elle was fairly certain that this
hallucination was now taking a turn for the worse.
  "Waare are we gowing?" she mumbled as she saw
a river directly in front of them.
  "Goin' to catch up with the herd. Don't rightly
know how much the Cap'n wrote to you." The young
cowboy spoke up from in back of the wagon as they
crossed over a narrow wooden bridge. "He's
real proud of them Herefords. Going to crossbreed
'em with the Longhorn. He even bought himself an
Angus bull. Imagine that!"
  Traver glared back over his shoulder. "Kyle
Reavis, watch your mouth. This here's a lady."
  Even though she saw both men glance at
her gabardine slacks, she still smiled as they
left the bridge behind them and rode out into the flat
countryside. "Thaas okay," she said as best
she could. She dabbed at the corner of her mouth with the
blue paper still hanging from her neck. "I don't
mind."
  Traver harrumphed loudly before urging the
horse on. "You still watch your mouth, Kyle. The
Cap'n wouldn't like it."
  Elle thought whoever this Cap'n was, he sounded
like someone she wouldn't like. She wanted to ask the
old cowboy when they would get back to the dentist's
office, but decided against it. Every time she spoke
she had the distinct impression that they were horrified
by her voice. One would think she was the only one in
the world who had trouble speaking after being shot up with
Novocaine!
  She had never been in such an isolated
place. Mile after mile they rode in silence.
Probably in reality it was only seconds, but
to her it felt like almost an hour had gone by and still they
kept to the deep rutted road that seemed to lead
to nowhere. If it weren't for the occasional prairie
dogs, which she thought were cute and Traver
proclaimed as danged nuisances, Elle would have
sworn they weren't even moving. She thought that if
she were to stand in the center of the plains and twirl
completely around, she would see the same sight, the
same horizon before her. It was that flat. So when
she actually saw the herd of cattle, the white
shape that turned into a covered wagon, Elle
sat up straight in the seat and became interested.
  "What's dat ... that?" she mumbled, starting
to feel a tingling in her lips.
  "That's the Cap'n, and the herd we're goin'
to take back with us to the Triple Cross.
Nothin' like the seven hundred we drove up here,
but these sixty are special. Plan
to crossbreed 'em, the Cap'n does ..."
Kyle's voice held a note of pride and
Elle wondered just who this paragon of virtue was
to have inspired such respect. Glancing at
Traver's angry expression, Kyle added,
"But I already told you about that."
  Within minutes, the wagons grew larger and the
cattle became real living things as they moved
about. She could see men on horses riding at the
edge of the herd, swinging their hats to bring a stray
cow back to the others. Traver drove past the
cattle to the covered wagon that stood before
a campfire. There were perhaps ten cowboys standing
by it, drinking coffee and staring at them as they
approached. One of them, taller than the others,
moved forward as if to greet them. His steps were
long and graceful, filled with purpose and
authority.
  As if on command, the sun came out from behind the
fat clouds and Elle shielded her eyes against the
sudden glare. Squinting, she stared back. The
lone cowboy wore a brown coat that reached beyond his
calves. It looked like a raincoat of sorts,
with an attached shawl of leather over his shoulders.
Even from this distance, she could see that the leather was
worn, even ripped in spots. When he walked
toward them the long coat fell to his sides and
she was able to make out his jeans and shirt. He
wore an olive green scarf, a bandana, at his
neck and it lay on his chest, as though he had just
pulled it down from his face. Unconsciously,
Elle swallowed as they came closer. She
couldn't see his eyes because of the wide hat, but she
could distinguish the lower half of his features, the
mustache and beard, the dark brown hair that touched
his collar. And for some strange reason,
Elizabeth Mackenzie held her breath as
Traver stopped the buckboard and the cowboy swept
his worn leather hat from his head.
  He was, she reluctantly admitted, the
most gorgeous man she had ever seen. God, but
her imagination was fertile! For only with the help of
sweet air could she have conjured up this hunk. And
that's what he was--a hunk. A rugged, hunky
cowboy. A combination of Tom Selleck, Mel
Gibson and Gary Cooper all mixed together. And
to think she never even liked cowboys! Not even in
the movies. They simply weren't her type.
She liked three-piece suits, expertly
tailored, not tight jeans and beards and light
blue eyes that looked at her with ... with
anticipation? As if he were expecting her?
  This man, this wonderful image from her drugged
mind, came up to the side of the buckboard and
smiled.
  "You're here ..." he said, as though not quite
believing it himself. "I'm sorry about this. About the
way you were met at the station. It isn't how I
had wanted us to finally meet."
  His voice was low, a little embarrassed, and he
brushed back his hair in a nervous gesture.
"I'm glad you're here."
  She smiled as best she could. "Tanks ...
thank you." Wiping the side of her mouth she
strained to speak correctly. "Do you know where
Doctor Macdade is?"
  The smile on his face quickly disappeared. As
if remembering himself, he reached out his hand to her.
"Doctor? Here, let me help you down. Would
you like coffee? Anything I can get you? You must be
tired after your trip."
  She nodded and stood up. What a great voice
he had. "You're not kidding. This has beewn
unbewievable!" Damn it! Why did she have
to sound like Daffy Duck now? In front of him.
She was about to explain about her mouth when she
noticed the low murmurs of the other cowboys who
stood by the campfire. Looking up, Elle saw
their shocked expressions and she glanced to the tall
cowboy in front of her. His eyes narrowed as they
took in her legs and his mouth was set in a grim
line. Why did her clothes seem to evoke such
negative reactions from everyone? This was truly a
crazy dream. One would think these men had never
seen a woman in slacks before.
  His hands were strong as he lifted her down from the
wagon, and Elle again marveled at the
hallucination. It would be just her luck for the real
Doctor Macdade to wake her now, now that she
was getting to the interesting part. The cowboy set her
away from him and she had the impression that she had
somehow just disappointed him. She didn't know how,
or why, but she could tell by his eyes that something
wasn't right.
  He cleared his throat, aware of the interested men
behind him. "We've ... ah, I have been waiting.
I was ... was worried," he added, clearly
embarrassed. "Was there a problem with the
connections? Is that why your train was delayed?"
  God, he was great looking! Never again would she
be frightened of the dentist. If a little gas could
create this man, she knew she would be back for more.
"My twain? It was dewayed? Delayed?" She
smiled apologetically. "I'm afterwardaid I
don't know what your tawking about. Talking about."
As if it weren't bad enough that she spoke like a
cartoon character, she actually, in front of all these
staring men, began to dribble from trying to push the words
through numb lips.
  "Sheet, man ... look at that!"
  "My God, the Cap'n--he's gone and
married a ..."
  "A blubbering idiot! That's what!"
  "Aww, Geez. Look at her! She's
afoamin'."
  "Shut up. Don't let him hear you."
  But he had. And so had she.
  Wiping the corner of her mouth with the paper napkin
that still hung from her neck, Elle glanced up at
him. The Captain. A tight knot began in her
stomach and squeezed at her muscles. He was
furious, and he was looking at her as if she were the
cause. His left cheek was moving rapidly,
probably from clenching his back teeth. And his
eyes. Eyes that she had thought to be outstanding only
a moment ago, narrowed and turned cold.
  "We'll talk later. We've already been
delayed three days and I have to make up the time.
I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but there isn't
any other way." He turned around to the men and
added in a low threatening voice. "All right,
ladies, if you're done with your gossiping, then
let's get started. We've got a long trip
ahead of us."
  They were like jackrabbits that had been caught in
a beam of light. Frozen in indecision and fear,
no one moved until the tall cowboy roared,
"Now!"
  Elle jumped along with the others. The cowboys
started scurrying about the camp while the man, the
Captain, turned back to her.
  "You'll ride with Cooky, Arlyn," he
corrected. "Your trunk is in my wagon. I
expect you'll want to change."
  She looked down to her slacks. "What's
wrong with what I'm wearing?"
  He inhaled deeply. "I was hoping you were so
attired because of losing your baggage. A lady would
never--would never--" He shook his head with
impatience. "Why am I discussing this? We're
breaking camp immediately." He jammed his hat
back onto his head and added, "We'll continue this
discussion when we stop outside of Caldwell."
  "Wait a minute," she called after him as he
walked away from her. "Wait just one minute."
She was happy to note that her speech was
definitely more clear.
  He turned, and she saw that the annoyance in his
expression had turned to anger. "What is it?"
  "Look, I think there's been a mistake.
I want to wake up now." She tried smiling
at him. "It's not your fault. I
suppose you're nice enough, but I don't think
I'm going to wike this ... like this." She waved to the
wagons and the cattle beyond. "I'm not the
outdoorsy type. I hate camping. L.l.
Bean ... all that stuff. It's just not for me."
  His mouth dropped open in surprise and she
felt a twinge of pity for this figment of her
imagination. It was too bad that it was over, but
she'd had enough. It was getting too confusing.
Surely the dentist had to be done by now. "Hey,
it's okay. Just tell me what to do."
  He leaned closer to her, so close that she
noticed the crinkles at the corner of his eyes--
blue eyes that narrowed even more so with anger. His
nostrils actually flared and she observed a single
gray hair in his beard. He was plainly
furious, but she stood her ground instead of backing
up. And when he opened his mouth to speak, she could
detect the scent of coffee at his lips.
  "I have already told you what to do, madam. Do not
continue with this spectacle--"
  "But I told you," she interrupted. "There's
been a mistake."
  He looked deeply into her eyes and she
actually cringed from the fury building within his
expression.
  "I believe you are correct," he said in a
low, almost menacing voice. "There has been a
mistake. Mine. You, madam, grossly
misrepresented yourself."
  "What?" Highly offended, she straightened her
shoulders. "How dare you? Why, you're not even
real! You ... you ... Captain!"
  His eyes locked with hers over a stormy war of
words. "That's right, madam. A captain.
Retired, Confederate Army. And I'm giving you
an order right now. Get in that wagon with
Cooky, or by God I'll leave you right here on
the Kansas plains. That hair would make some
Osage chief very happy."
  She blinked several times. How odd that only
minutes ago, she was plagued by an excess of
saliva, actually dribbling onto the blue
napkin at her neck. Grasping the paper in her
fist, she pulled it off. Now, her mouth felt as
dry as a desert. What did he say? The
Confederate Army? How ludicrous. This was a
hallucination. A delusion.
  "Who are you?" she demanded of the illusion.
  He looked at her as though she'd lost
her mind. As if straining for patience, he
enunciated each word, "Jordan Dillon
McCabe. Please make up your mind.
We're moving out."
  He turned and walked away, leaving her in
front of the wagons. She watched a cowboy put
out the campfire and smelled the acrid odor of
doused flames, as coffee was poured over it.
Other men threw things into the back of the wooden
wagon while giving her sidelong glances.
  Something was definitely wrong. Who did
McCabe think he was?
  Dear God ... he was acting as if this were
real.
  Real?
  Thinking the word, hearing it in her mind, frightened
her even more than saying it aloud. For suddenly,
without any explanation, instinct was telling her it was
so.
  This was not a dream!
  It was happening ... now!



              Chapter 3

  "Okay! Hold it!" Elle's voice was
surprisingly strong, considering her state of
shock. "Wait just one minute," she called after
the cowboy. He stopped, stood very still, and then
slowly turned back to her.
  She walked the few yards to meet him, knowing
he would never come forward. It was a power play.
She'd gone through it herself in business a hundred
times. But she was good at it and knew just how
to advance and when to retreat. Aware of the attention
they were receiving from those around them, Elle also knew this
man would hate to lose face--it made good sense
now to come to him, to save him from any further
embarrassment.
  She stood in front of him, refusing to allow
his frightening appearance to alter her course. He
wasn't real anyway. Her ridiculous thoughts
of moments ago were not worth considering. Somehow, some
way, she had to stop this fantasy before it turned
into a nightmare.
  "Mr. McCabe? That is your name, isn't
it?" She didn't wait for an answer before
continuing. "Look, I've had enough. Something
happened during the storm this morning.
Maybe I can't handle nitrous oxide, or
something. Maybe there was a surge in the
electricity before it was knocked out, and I got a
double dose of laughing gas--only I'm not
laughing anymore. Who knows why I'm here, or
why you're here ... although that's certainly a more
interesting question. Probably has something to do with my
love life. Or lack of one. Come to think of
it, I hope I'm not spouting all this
to Eisenberg or Macdade, or whoever he was,
and that nurse of his." Placing her hand onto her
hip, she shook her head. "They're probably
hysterical right now, aren't they? Listening to me
talking to you. A fantasy. My God, I must
seem pathetic."
  She took a deep breath and tried to return
to her original thought. "Anyway, I don't know
how this sort of thing is supposed to work, but I
need to go back now. That's really what I wanted
to say." She almost grinned. "And I'm saying it
pretty well, now that I'm getting some feeling
into my lips. Well, what do you say, Mr.
Cap'n Cowboy? How do I get back?"
  He continued to stare at her. And when he
spoke, his voice was a whisper of angry
disbelief. "What are you talking about? You want
to go back? I believe we have already discussed
that. It's the rest of your speech that I find--"
  She nodded and tried to smile as she interrupted
him. "Yes, well ... this time I'd
appreciate an answer, instead of an order.
How do I get back to Wichita?"
  His nose actually flared, and Elle couldn't
stop staring at his expression. He looked so
angry that she found her stomach muscles tightening
in defense. Honestly, why couldn't she have conjured
up a more accommodating figure for this dream? This
guy, although gorgeous in a rough kind of way, was
becoming a real pain.
  Slowly, as though it had a will of its own, his arm
rose from his side and pointed to the left. "That
way. You go back that way. The same way you just
came."
  She looked to the barren horizon. There was
nothing here, absolutely nothing. "Will your men
take me back? Traver and Kyle?" It was the
least they could do.
  "My men are preparing to go home. Something
we're all impatient to do. We've wasted
three days waiting for you, madam. I am
not about to squander another hour and a half to take you
back to Wichita. You'll have to wait until
Caldwell to get a ride east."
  "You mean you won't take me back? What
am I to do out here?" Her voice was rising, along
with a frightening hysteria. He'd actually leave her
in this desolate place!
  He bent his head, his face mere inches from her
own. She swallowed down an excess of saliva
and glared back at him.
  "I've already given you your alternatives. You
ride with Cooky--or, you walk."
  Elle's chin rose up in defiance, while her
eyes narrowed dangerously. She would have dearly
loved to tell him exactly what he could do with his
suggestions, but her sense of survival rose to the
surface, taking the edge off an intense anger.
Instead, she allowed the full measure of her
distaste to be heard in her voice.
  "Cowboy!"
  For a modern, cultured, sophisticated
Easterner, at the moment it was the worst thing she could
think of to say.
  His mouth dropped open and she smiled at his
shocked expression. "I have endured enough,
madam," he said finally and with great patience. "When
we reach Caldwell, we shall both see about
rectifying this mistake."
  Without another word he walked away, leaving her
in the middle of a camp that was rapidly being
dismantled. She sensed the stares of the men as they
worked around her and she turned her head to face them.
Quickly, they averted their eyes and continued their
chores, tying barrels and shovels to the sides of
wagons, checking the harness of the lead horses.
There wasn't a doubt in her mind.
  These men thought she was crazy.
  Of course she hadn't done much to dispel that
image. They had said she was foaming at the mouth.
Maybe a little dribble could create a curiosity,
but "a foamin'?" C'mon ... she'd been
numb. Her lips had felt like a Mick Jagger
nightmare. And then there was McCabe's reaction
to her words. Perhaps to someone, a cowboy, it might
sound strange. She shrugged. A little strange.
As she thought over her morning, her tongue played
with the sodden gauze in the back of her mouth and she
felt like gagging. Enough was enough.
  As casually as she could, she brushed back her
hair and allowed her hand to pass over the
front of her face, while as delicately and as
stealthily as possible, Elle spit out the gauze
into the blue napkin that she clutched in her hand.
Hoping no one would notice, she walked closer
to the doused campfire and dropped the offending
material. Just as she was about to kick some dried
mud on top of it, a voice called out from behind
her.
  "Ma'am? You hurt, or somethin'?"
  Elle jumped in surprise, but quickly
recovered and turned to the young man at her side.
"I ... ahhh ... I had a tooth removed this
morning," she said promptly to Kyle as he stared
down at her attempt to cover the bloodied
gauze. "It's ... it's nothing. Really."
  "You sure? Maybe you should--well, you know,
tell the Cap'n. Or somethin'?" The boy was
obviously embarrassed.
  Elle actually laughed, or she hoped it
sounded like a laugh. My God, her mouth hurt!
"Don't you dare say anything to that man. He's
a pompous jackass. And neurotic about time!
He couldn't even spare a wagon, or anyone
to take me back to Wichita. His precious
wagon train might be delayed. Can you
imagine?"
  "Yes, ma'am. I can. He's the boss. And
this here isn't a wagon train. It's more like a
trail drive back home to Texas." He
appeared uncomfortable talking to her and cleared his
throat. "I'm to show you Cooky's wagon.
All right?"
  He looked like he expected her to argue with him
and Elle softened at his fearful expression. She
didn't have a problem with the young man. Smiling, she
said, "Sure, show me Cooky's wagon. I
might as well ride this dream out. I'm
certainly not making any headway going against it."
  She followed Kyle to the large covered wagon
and waited as he introduced her to an old man
who was throwing supplies into a huge box that was
bolted to the back of it. It looked like a large
dresser with massive drawers for storing food and
cooking utensils. Vaguely, Elle wished
she'd had a cup of coffee this morning back at
the hotel. It didn't look like it was going to be
an easy afternoon.
  "Cooky? This here's Miz Cynthia. The
Cap'n's new missus. She's ridin' with you."
  Elle barely had time to acknowledge the
old man's grunt of displeasure when Kyle's
words registered.
  Now it all made sense! Of course, they
thought she was someone else. She opened her mouth
to speak, to correct the mistake. Surely now
they would take her back to Wichita. But as she
started to talk, a red haze of pain washed in
front of her eyes, making her tear at the effort
to control it.
  It was obvious the Novocain had finally worn
off. What perfect timing. Here she was, in the
middle of nowhere. With no way to get back
to civilization. To her way of thinking, she didn't
have much of a choice. And as yet, no one had ever
accused Elizabeth Mackenzie of being a fool.
  She watched the man named Cooky tie down the
canvas across the back of the wagon. He had long
gray hair that didn't look like it had been
washed in a month. His matching beard hung in
long wisps that reminded her of the fake cobwebs
people used at Halloween to decorate their doors.
Even his hat was gray. Once, it might have been
black, but over time it must have faded to blend in with the
rest of him. He was a genuine character, mumbling his
displeasure at her company. Without a
recognizable word, he took his seat in the front
and waited for her to join him.
  Here it was ... the decision. Should she stay and
wait for the dream to end? Surely now that the
Novocain was wearing off, the effects of the gas would
dissipate. She gazed to the bleak horizon and
hated to admit that it didn't look promising.
Or ... she could join Gabby Hayes here and
stay with people, or illusions, until she woke up.
Within moments, she concluded that anything was better
than being alone in this fantasy ... even old
Gabby.
  Climbing up next to the silent and
somber-faced driver, Elle tried to compose her
expression. "How do you do, Cooky?" she said as
calmly and pleasantly as possible. "You can
call me Elizabeth." Even though she was
definitely in pain, she smiled down at
Kyle. "No one ever calls me Cynthia."
  It wasn't a lie.

  It was so goddamned unfair that if he
actually thought about it, he might stampede the herd
himself. Guiding the Angus bull, Jordan
realized he was barely able to manage his
own emotions. How the hell could this have happened?
How could this harridan, this ... this shrew be the
same woman whose sensitive letters had moved him
so? The woman who had answered his letters had
written with intelligence and sensitivity,
perception and enthusiasm. The female driving
Cooky to distraction with her stream of chatter
hardly filled that description.
  He had been deceived. And Jordan Dillon
McCabe prided himself on his judgments. It
wasn't often that he made a mistake, but this
... surely this qualified for something larger than
a mistake.
  It was a disaster.
  Granted, he hadn't met Cynthia in
person, but they had written for almost a year. They
had even exchanged photographs. It didn't
matter to him that she looked nothing at all like the
image she had sent him over six months ago.
His own picture hadn't captured him either. With
such formal clothing, somber expression and a brace
to hold his head still, Jordan had been unsure,
yet the photographer had said it was an
appropriate gift for a lady. He had not been
pleased to send it off to Atlanta, yet was
impatient for Cynthia's reply. He
remembered actually being apprehensive waiting for
her approval!
  Following behind the chuck wagon, Jordan
shook his head as he watched the woman hold the
side of her face. At least she wasn't
talking anymore. He hadn't expected a great
beauty in Cynthia. He thought he knew what
he was getting this time around. This time in his life,
he wanted stability and intelligence--someone
to build a home with. He gazed down to the lead
animal. It was all supposed to be part of the
plan. He'd worked on it for years ...
  With Scottish backing, Jordan had
established one of the finest cattle spreads in
Texas. Every four months, he sent exactly
one-third of the profits to Scotland, with his thanks
and gratitude. Without James Magonicle,
there would be no Triple Cross. The
Scotsman had invested in the dreams of a defeated
soldier, and trusted him to make good. It was an
immense source of pride that three years ago,
the Triple Cross had shown its initial
profit and now James would be visiting for the very first
time in less than two months. Two
months ...
  Peachtree Point was finally completed in the
same antebellum style as his family home in
Georgia. Not exactly a replica of the one that
had been burned and gutted by an invading army in the
fall of '64, but it was a sweet reminder of more
innocent days. And it was an accomplishment to have
re-created that splendor amid such wild land.
Four huge white columns greeted any guest
to his front door. Every brick of soft peach and
white had been brought in by wagon and applied to the
facade and the walkways that bordered the small
orchards on either side of the house. Even though the
peach trees had never yielded a single fruit,
Jordan liked to look at the blossoms in the
spring, remembering a time when he could gaze out a
window of his family home to a sea of soft white
... but that was another lifetime ago. He would never
be that innocent or trusting ever again. Through war and
defeat and sorrow and sheer hell, Jordan
Dillon McCabe had been reborn into a
survivor. He might be able to recapture the
outward trappings of a lost life, but inside, where
honesty was so often brutal, Jordan knew a
vital part of himself had been lost.
  He had thought perhaps Cynthia might have been the
one to bring it back. She had written all the right
responses in her letters, expressed the same
dreams for a future.
  She must have been play acting, saying and doing
anything to get a husband. He had been so
foolish. Lucia had laughed at him for marrying
a woman he had never met ... for advertising in
the Atlanta Journal for a wife. But he'd
had Cynthia investigated! How could he have been
so deceived? He and Alexander Foy had grown up
together. They had even formed the Kenesaw Mountain
Volunteers at the tender age of nineteen.
Never mind that their small group of mostly
gentlemen cavalry soldiers had been absorbed
into General Johnson's army. Alex Foy had
been a trusted lifetime friend--a friend that had sworn
to him of Cynthia's soft, gentle nature.
Alex had written that Miss Cynthia Warden
was a woman of virtue and gentility. Her people
went back to the first settlers of the Georgia
colony. Alex had recommended her, saying she
would make a perfect wife--that she was everything the
South, the old South, had once envisioned in a
woman, and that Jordan was fortunate to have
found her, even in such a bizarre fashion.
Alex had not only met Cynthia, he'd also
stood in as Jordan's proxy for the wedding in her
aunt's home last month.
  Nothing made sense anymore. Nothing. His
oldest friend had misled him, and the woman in
Cooky's wagon had deceived him in the most
despicable manner. Anger renewed itself and
surged up inside of him as he glared ahead.
How she must be laughing at his pathetic need for a
wife.
  For the widower Jordan McCabe, it was the
second time he had made a drastic mistake
in marriage. And this time he wouldn't wait for
Fate to step in and solve his problem. He was
going to rectify this one as soon as they reached
Caldwell, for he couldn't imagine bringing this
woman home to Peachtree Point. Picturing his
mother-in-law's reaction almost brought a smile
to his lips. The ever-proper Hester Hunt
Morgan would take one look at those trousers and
collapse in apoplexy.
  So absorbed in his own thoughts, Jordan
didn't even realize that Cooky had slowed the
chuck wagon and was preparing to stop for the night
until he almost rode right up to it. He looked
to the sky and then brought his horse next to the
driver.
  "What are you doing?" he asked the old man.
"There's at least two more hours of good
daylight--"
  He stopped speaking when he glanced at the
woman next to Cooky. The vibrant, fearless
woman of this afternoon was gone. Somehow, in the last
four hours, a pale, shaking creature had taken
her place. The pain in her eyes was clearly
visible. She was holding her cheek, cradling it in
the palms of her hands, and when she looked at him,
really looked, his chest tightened with remorse as
he watched the thin tears roll over her fingers.
  She was obviously ill. And she was looking at
him as if he had somehow caused it.
  "What's wrong?" he asked Cooky.
  The old man shrugged. "She's been like this for the
past couple 'a hours. I didn't think she could
take much more." He wrapped the leather reins around
the brake and hopped off the wagon. "Ain't
gonna hurt nothing if we settle in a few
hours early tonight. All I know is I ain't
drivin' another mile with a crying woman
next to me--"
  "I mean what's wrong with her? Is she
hurt?"
  Elle swallowed down a sob of pain and
frustration. "Why don't you ask me? You can
talk to me, you know. I am able to answer simple
questions." Trying to glare at him, but finding it took
too much of an effort, she sniffled and groaned
aloud at the movement. How could she have ever thought
he looked like Mel Gibson? He had the
compassion and sensitivity of Attilla the Hun!
  Taking a deep breath, the cowboy said, "Then
tell me. What's wrong?"
  Elle's lips trembled as she tried to speak
over the racking pain that enveloped the entire side
of her face. "I have to know ... is this hell? Just
tell me. Have I died and gone to hell?"
  He could only stare at her. My God,
what had he gotten himself into? Not only was she
a shrew, she was also deranged!




              Chapter 4

  He found her pacing beside the wagon, holding her
face and silently crying. When Kyle finally
told him about her tooth, Jordan felt
terrible. Why hadn't she told him herself? It would
have saved so much. But then he remembered that
arrogant, stubborn streak he had seen in her when
she'd first arrived. That, too, was something he never
detected from her letters. Cynthia Warden was a
complete surprise. As he approached her, he
was shocked to realize that she was now Cynthia
McCabe. Legally. But not morally. And he was
going to see that it remained that way.
  She spun around to face him. "Did you get
something?" she asked in an anguished whisper.
  He felt a moment of real contrition for having
put her through an afternoon of torture on the trail.
"Here's a poultice Cooky made. Some
cloves for the pain and tea to draw the blood."
He held out his hand while wondering why he never
thought she was truly attractive in her
photograph. Even in her pain, as she flung
her long brown hair back from her face and stared
at his hand, she was ... well, almost pretty.
  "I beg your pardon?" Elle looked
at the thing in his palm. He was offering a small
ball wrapped in a yellowed cotton material.
"What is that? I asked you for something for the pain."
Sniffling, she wiped at her nose. She no
longer cared what anyone thought. "Don't you have
... drugs?"
  "Drugs?"
  God, talk about big and stupid! "Yes.
Drugs. I'll even settle for an aspirin.
Please, don't you have anything?"
  He held out his hand. "Why don't you try
it?"
  "I have had a tooth extracted, Mr.
McCabe, not my brain. Cloves and tea are
not going to stop this kind of pain."
  He stared at her, as if fighting for his
patience, but she couldn't have cared less at the
moment about his injured male ego. Not with pain like
this! My God, she felt like her face was on
fire. The blinding, stabbing ache went deep behind
her upper jaw. It was an unleashed horror,
attacking her nerve endings and producing a throbbing
spasm that wound its way up behind her eye and
temple and back down to the empty socket in her
mouth. It was the worst pain she had ever endured and
it was relentless. Dear God, she needed some
relief, from somewhere.
  She wasn't even surprised to see her shaking
fingers reach out and take the poultice. She stared
at it for a few seconds, almost missing his next
words.
  "I ... ah ... that is, I thought it might
help if you soaked it first. I'm sorry I
don't have anything less potent. I didn't
expect--"
  "What is it?" she interrupted, while gaping
at the bottle he had pulled out from the pocket of
his long coat.
  "Whiskey."
  "Whiskey?"
  "I apologize. Under normal circumstances
I would never have offered. A lady ... a ... a
woman--"
  Elle reached out and grabbed the bottle from his
hand. "Give it to me," she nearly ordered.
Desperate for relief, in any form, she held
the cotton ball to the mouth of the bottle and tipped
it over. She repeated the action until the
poultice was soaking in the liquor. "I'm in
agony," she offered as an apology for
being so short with him. "I'll do anything ... even
this."
  She opened her mouth and gingerly inserted the
saturated ball. When she tried closing her
jaw, she hissed in pain as her raw gum came
in contact with the homemade remedy. Without further
thought, she brought the bottle up to her mouth and
tilted her head back.
  "Cynthia!"
  She ignored his shocked protest and took a
deep swallow. Losing her breath as the alcohol
burned its way to her empty stomach, Elle
sputtered and bent over, gagging at the strong
taste. She fought with her body, somehow managing
to catch her breath and control her rebellious
stomach at the same time. When she finally
straightened, it was to come face to face with the
self-righteous cowboy.
  He held out his hand for the bottle, but she
clung to it, hugging it to her stomach. "Let me
keep it," she said. It was a statement; she
wasn't asking. Hating herself for it, she wiped at
her nose with the back of one hand while clutching the
whiskey to her as if it were more precious than
gold. What a pathetic sight she must make!
"And I told Cooky and Kyle nobody
calls me Cynthia." The whiskey must be starting
to work, for she didn't even care how furious he
was becoming. "I prefer Elizabeth."
  It was true. Only close family were
permitted to use the childhood nickname. Everyone
in business who tried to hang a Betty, Beth
or, God forbid, Bess was met with a polite
reminder that her name was Elizabeth ... period.
And she certainly wasn't a Cynthia. Not his
Cynthia, at least. For a fleeting moment,
Elle wondered where the woman was. If she was
still waiting in Wichita, or if there really was such
a woman at all. She shrugged her shoulders and
tried smiling up at the cowboy.
  "Call me Elizabeth. Everybody does."
  She could see that stopped his angry thoughts, for his
mouth merely opened and closed. No words came
out. Elle walked closer to the wagon and leaned
against it for support. Dear God, she was tired.
If she could only stop the pain, the throbbing, then
maybe she could sleep. Yes. That was it. If
she could only fall asleep, then perhaps when she
awoke it would be all over. She would be back in
the dentist's chair, or in her hotel
room ... maybe even home in her own bed.
Maybe this was all a nightmare.
  That was it! She had to go to sleep.
  But to get to sleep, she had to stop the pain.
And the only thing she had was the whiskey. Shrugging
her shoulders, she grabbed hold of the wagon wheel
and slowly, gingerly, lowered herself to the ground.
  "What are you doing?"
  She gazed up at him. He didn't look so
frightening. Come to think of it, he was starting to look like
Mel Gibson again. Funny what a little
whiskey can do. "I'm going to sit here until I
fall asleep. And then you're going to be gone.
All you guys are going to disappear back
to prairie heaven, or wherever you come from." She
waved to the men who were settling in the cows for the
night. She smelled the food Cooky was working
over and her stomach muscles tightened in
response. She hadn't had anything to eat in
... since last night when that rotten BLT had
started this bad dream. But she wasn't hungry.
She had swallowed too much blood to even
contemplate food. And then again, her jaw hurt
too damned much to ... to masticate. Elle
brought the whiskey up to her lips. Great word ...
masticate. She couldn't be drunk. Not if she
could think of it. What she needed was more whiskey.
Feeling more in control of the situation, she tilted
her head back and sipped. She shivered in
distaste, yet wrapped her arms around the bottle
and held it to her chest for protection. Already she
felt different. There was a distant buzzing in her
ears and her lips were beginning to tingle again. Now if
she could just keep drinking until the rest of her was
numb, she'd be set. To her tortured mind, it
was perfect logic. Obliterate the senses, then
pass out.
  When she woke up, it would all be over.
  She'd be Elizabeth Mackenzie again.
Competent. In control. Ready to take on the
world--
  "Do you mean to tell me you intend to sit there and
drink?"
  "You've got it," she answered, angry that he
had intruded on her positive thoughts.
  "In front of everyone?"
  She blinked several times before tilting her head
up to see him. "Look, what is your problem?
Is it because I'm a woman? You cowboys seem
to have this distorted idea about a female's
endurance. If you, or any of these men, were trying
to wipe out this kind of pain, no one would give it a
second thought. But because I'm a woman, I'm
expected to clamp down on herbs and endure?"
She took a deep breath to steady her raw
nerves. "No thanks. I'll take the
liquor."
  "Cynth--" He shook his head in frustration.
"Elizabeth," and he said her name with exaggerated
patience, "you're going to make yourself sick. You
should eat something. Cooky's heating up stew from
last night. Maybe you could try it."
  He was only a dream, a product of her
imagination, and she really didn't have to answer him
if she didn't want to ... but something inside
of her made her wave him off. "Now that would
really make me sick. I can't eat." She
leaned her head back against the wooden wheel and
closed her eyes. "I just want to go to sleep.
Everybody looks busy. Don't you have anything
else to do besides keeping me awake?"
  When he didn't answer after a few moments,
she opened her eyes and looked up to where he had
been standing.
  For the first time all day, she breathed a sigh of
relief.
  He'd already gone.

  "Wake up, Elizabeth."
  Still clutching the whiskey bottle to her chest,
she stirred in her sleep. "Huh? Oh, okay
..." Her eyes remained closed.
  "Elizabeth. You cannot sleep on the ground.
Please. At least let me put this blanket
under you so you don't catch cold."
  She opened her eyes and smiled and, for a moment,
Jordan caught his breath at the sweet
expression. It only lasted a fraction of time,
but for an instant her guard was down, her face
relaxed. And her amber eyes were peaceful, almost
beautiful. Her skin was pure, soft and
unblemished. He was sure when she was cleaned
up, she would be quite lovely. Clearing his throat,
Jordan tried again.
  He reached out and touched her.
  Wrapping his fingers around her arms, he pulled
her up to him. She tried to help, but her efforts
were weak and she clung to him as she stood.
  "Hey, McCabe," she slurred in a
sleepy voice, "what're you doing?" With
great effort, she pushed the strands of long brown
hair away from her face.
  "I'm trying to get you to stand, so I can put a
blanket down. Maybe you'd like to sleep in
Cooky's wagon. There's not much room, but you'd
be off the ground." He almost smiled at her
efforts to awaken. She was blinking rapidly as she
gazed up at him and he could feel how unsteady
her legs were as she swayed in his arms.
  His arms ...
  It was odd to hold a woman again. Especially
this one. Actually he wasn't holding her,
merely keeping her upright until she was able to stand
by herself, but the fact remained that this was the first time that
he had held the woman all others thought of as his
wife. A wife. It was too bizarre
to contemplate. Instead, he took her hand from his
arm and placed it on the wagon for support. "Can
you stand?" he asked.
  She nodded and leaned against the cook's wagon.
Her head bobbed drunkenly as she tried
to overcome the effects of the whiskey. Once more
he felt the urge to smile. He never would have
believed the proper woman of those long months of
correspondence would behave with such total
abandon. Elizabeth, as she'd made it clear
she preferred to be called, was turning out to be a
complete surprise--in more ways than he
expected.
  "I have a quilt and a small straw
mattress. It isn't much, but if you won't
sleep in the wagon it'll keep you from getting a
chill." He spread the old quilt over the
mattress and smoothed down its edges. "There you
are," he said, his voice sounding far brighter than his
mood.
  She sank to the quilt, her fist still clutching the
bottle. "Did I sleep?" she asked as she
squinted toward the campfire.
  Sitting next to her, he offered the plate of
stew. "For a short time. Look, I brought you some
food. You've got to be hungry. Maybe you
could dip the bread into the gravy."
  She shook her head before slowly allowing it
to fall back against the wagon wheel. Closing her
eyes, she muttered, "You go ahead. I can't
eat."
  He watched her for a few moments, seeing how the
return of pain made her expression tense, her
body achingly taut. In all honesty,
he didn't blame her for bringing the whiskey to her
mouth and gulping it down.
  "Are you all right?" he asked, observing her
cough and sputter in the aftermath. When she didn't
answer, he held his plate in one hand and whacked
her on the back with the other. She seemed to catch
her breath after that.
  "Jesus!" Her face was red from the exertion.
"How mad are you?"
  "I was trying to help you," he said
defensively.
  "Right. I think my lungs are now located in
my throat."
  He stared at her.
  "I suppose you're now waiting for me to thank
you for rearranging my internal organs?"
  He paused for only a moment before smiling.
"You're welcome."
  It was the smile. He never should have done that,
Elle reasoned. If only he had remained the
stiff, overbearing cowboy that made this nightmare so
appalling. Instead, he had smiled at her. For the
first time. And something inside of her melted at his
wide friendly grin. She must be drunk to be so
affected by a smile ... from a cowboy, even a
great-looking cowboy, and she ran her hand over her
eyes as the next wave of pain washed over her
face. What an imagination! It must be the
whiskey. She wasn't used to drinking. Not like this.
An occasional glass of wine after dinner maybe.
Whiskey? Straight from a bottle? Hardly.
  Knowing it was the only thing that was going to get her
through the night, she reluctantly brought the
bottle back up to her lips and took another
sip. Her entire body shivered at the strong
taste and she let her breath out in a prolonged
gasp. "McCabe?" she asked in a hoarse
voice.
  He swallowed the food in his mouth. "What?"
  "I think we're lost. Both of us. I should be
in Wichita, or back East ... and you? You should
be where?"
  He took off his hat and looked up to the stars.
"If I could be anywhere right now?"
  She nodded while staring at his profile. Mel
Gibson with a day-old growth of beard.
  "Back at Peachtree Point."
  "Your home?" From the warm tone of voice she
realized it could be no other.
  "I wrote you about it. Don't you
remember?"
  Now would have been the perfect opportunity for
her to tell him the truth--that his proxy bride was
still missing. But she knew she wouldn't. Not yet.
In truth she was afraid of his reaction. He
might just leave her out here and she hated to admit that
even his company was preferable to being abandoned.
Swallowing down her guilt, Elle said in a low
voice, "Why don't you tell me about it again."
  She listened as he spoke of this place,
Peachtree Point. It was obviously special
to him. She could hear it in his voice. She might
have consumed more alcohol today than she had in a
year, yet she was still able to detect the difference in
his words. The pride and honest affection for his home
was genuine.
  "Nina has been working very hard. Under Hester's
tutelage she has organized all the
servants--"
  "Servants?"
  He glanced down to her. "There are several
women whose husbands work the ranch. All are
Mexican, or part Indian." His eyes
narrowed. "Does that bother you?"
  She shrugged. "No, why should it? I was just
surprised you have servants."
  "We need them. There are sixteen rooms.
Hester would never be able to manage alone."
  As the ache in her upper jaw returned,
Elle brought the whiskey back to her lips.
Once she caught her breath, she asked,
"Who's Hester?"
  He was sopping up heavy gravy with a thick
slice of bread when he said, "My mother-in-law.
You remember. I wrote to you about her several
times."
  Cradling the side of her face in her palm,
she could only stare at him. His mother-in-law?
She must be drunk! Blinking several times, she
muttered, "Your mother-in-law?"
  "Charlotte's mother."
  Elle slowly nodded her head, as if she
understood, when the entire thing sounded ludicrous
to her. How could he have brought this Cynthia woman
out from Georgia to marry him when he was already
married? It made no sense, unless-- "Are you
a ... a Mormon, or something?" she mumbled.
  It was his turn to gape at her. He looked
deeply into her eyes in the most uncomfortable
stare. Elle felt he was searching her
face for the truth and she had to look away from him
to the campfire.
  "Don't you remember, Elizabeth? I
told you all about Charlotte, and how she died."
  Her head snapped up. Their eyes met for an
instant, and a frightening heat entered her body and
settled in her chest. It only lasted a fraction
of time, but it was enough that she was uncomfortable ... and
he knew it. His wife died! She looked
back out to the campfire. Even though it was becoming
more difficult to focus on anything in particular,
Elle tried to concentrate on the scene in front
of her. She strained her eyes, forcing them to take
in Cooky as he handed out a second helping of
stew to Kyle. The old man named Traver sat
with several other cowboys on the ground, drinking
coffee as they leaned back against their bedrolls.
  The light from the campfire illuminated the area
and Elle could see the cattle not far away.
Even if she weren't able to see them, she could
certainly smell them, and the horses that were tethered
to a line of rope, starting at the front of the
wagon and ending ten feet away with a notched stick
in the ground. A city girl, through and through, she
couldn't understand why the creatures didn't break
away from the flimsy restraint.
  Perhaps they're like me, she thought as she gazed out
beyond them to the dark night. They have nowhere else to go.
At least here was some form of shelter and food and
refuge from the unknown. She was no better than the
beasts, with even less courage, for she could not find
the words to tell this man sitting next to her that she
was Elizabeth Mackenzie from Yardley,
Pennsylvania ... not his mail order bride.
  Bride.
  How many years had it been since she allowed
herself to even think that word and what it implied?
Certainly not since she had grown up and realized
that term would probably never be applied to her. It
wasn't as if she hadn't dreamed once ... when
she was young and naive and needing a fantasy to take
her away from the struggle of growing up.
  Once, when her father had come home from Conran's
bar and had started yelling at her Mom, Elle
had shut herself in her closet with the only
flashlight in the house. Alone, away from all the
shouting and crying, she had written down on a
piece of paper the names of her future children.
  Patrick and Shannon.
  In that tiny dark closet, she had
closed out the frightening adult problems and promised
herself that when she was a bride she would marry a man
that never got drunk and hit people. Her husband
wouldn't lose job after job and always blame his
bad luck on his wife and children. In her childish

mind, she had pictured a tuxedoed groom with the
breathtaking looks of a movie star, the wealth of
an Arab sheik, and the patience and temperament of a
saint. And he would love her. He wouldn't call
her names like ugly and scarecrow and stupid. Not like
her father and sometimes the boys in school did when they
were mad at her. No. If she were ever a bride,
then somebody, somewhere, was going to love her just the
way she was.
  Elle's eyes widened as she continued to stare
into the flames of the campfire. My God ...
what a pathetically unhappy and unrealistic child
she had been. She hadn't allowed herself to think about
that time in her life, and couldn't understand why it had
sprung to mind now. Especially when years ago
Fate had decreed that she would remain alone.
She had accepted that and built up her
protection.
  Really beginning to feel the effects of the
whiskey, Elle leaned her head back against the
wheel and looked at a deep purple sky that
seemed to fold its arms over the edges of the earth.
Hundreds of stars shimmered like jewels and she
smiled at the unusual thought. For someone who
normally thought of the night as dark and the stars as bright,
it was near poetic. It must be the whiskey. Come
to think of it, she felt almost numb. Tired, but
nearly pain-free.
  It was working. Surely she must be close
to passing out. Vaguely, she remembered that had
been her plan: to drink until oblivion and then
wake up from this nightmare. Safe. Sound. In
her own time.
  She glanced to the man at her side. He sat
erect, not slouching, nor leaning against the wheel for
support. Despite the cowboy attire, there was
something about him that suggested breeding and discipline.
What had he said before? A Confederate soldier?
  Impossible. She couldn't have heard
correctly. Even her imagination couldn't have come
up with that one. It was simply ridiculous. Her
eyelids fluttered to stay open as she watched him
finish eating. He was certainly good-looking in a
rough sort of way. Not that she was ever really
attracted to that type of man. As if just
becoming aware of her scrutiny, McCabe
surprised her by turning his head and catching her not
too subtle inspection.
  Dear God, his eyes were blue. Not just blue
--a startling light blue that was more pronounced
by his deep tan and his dark brown hair. There was
a tiny scar above his eyebrow, a thin line that was more
interesting than detracting. Too bad he would be
gone when she woke up.
  "Here's your coffee, Cap'n. Brought some for the
Missus, too."
  They both looked up to Cooky. The old man
stood before them offering steaming mugs. McCabe
murmured his thanks and reached up to take them.
When he turned to her, Elle shook her head.
  "I don't want to take the chance that it might
sober me up."
  He put her cup on the ground by his boot and
then, finally, leaned back next to her. She
watched as he brought the mug to his lips and
sipped the strong coffee. It didn't even
appear to bother him to swallow the scalding brew.
For a moment his eyes closed, as though he were very
tired, and then he spoke.
  "We must talk, Elizabeth."
  He said it simply, plainly, yet she felt
like he had just issued a command--one she did not wish
to obey. She could barely stay awake. "Now?"
she asked weakly, purposefully touching the side
of her face to remind him of her pain.
  He took a deep breath and stared at her, as
if studying her features. "Tomorrow, then. There are
some things that we must discuss. We are both ...
how shall I say this?" He cleared his throat and
looked out to the campfire. "I believe we are
both a bit disappointed."
  "I'm not especially disappointed. I mean,
for a cowboy, you're ... you know," she said in a
sleepy voice. "Sexy. Great buns," she
added while trying to stifle a yawn. God, it
hurt to move her jaw! Imagine, telling a
man she admired his rear end. Closing her
eyes, she grinned. Good thing he was only a
figment of her imagination. She would die of
embarrassment if any of this were real.
  Jordan nearly choked on his coffee. It
took him a few moments to regain his composure.
"Perhaps baffled is a better word. It's been a
confusing day, to say the least, and I've been
short-tempered and most disagreeable. I
apologize for my behavior. Had I known that
you'd had a tooth extracted on this trip then I
would never have made you travel further. However,
I believe we both need to discuss our plans
before we reach Caldwell tomorrow."
  He straightened his shoulders and continued. "I
would like you to know that should you ... should we decide that
a mistake has been made then there will be time
to take the proper action before we go into Indian
territory--Elizabeth?" He turned his head
and looked at the woman next to him.
  She was asleep.
  Frustrated by the strain of giving a speech that
hadn't been heard, Jordan let out his breath and
gingerly removed the nearly empty bottle from her
fingers. She released it and further startled him
by moaning in sleepy contentment. He studied her
face in repose, the high cheekbones, the fringe
of dark lashes that matched her hair. He found
himself mesmerized when the tip of her tongue grazed
over her dry lips, only to disappear the next
moment. She twitched in her sleep, as if
startled, then settled back to a fitful slumber.
From the corner of his eye, he watched as her head
slowly slumped down to her shoulder. Then, as if
they had been married for years, she turned in to him
and placed her head on .his shoulder, all the while
making tiny noises in the back of her throat,
disturbing noises that could be taken for either pleasure
or pain.
  Of course it must be pain.
  He didn't move. He sat completely still
and listened as his breathing matched hers. He could
feel his heart pounding beneath his shirt and he glanced
up at the men who gathered about the fire. Each in
turn cast him sidelong looks of curiosity and
embarrassment as this woman, Elizabeth, by law
his wife, wound her arms around his and pressed
closer.
  Ignoring the stares of the men, Jordan used his
free arm to pour a measure of whiskey into his
coffee cup. He had to concentrate to keep his hand
from shaking. His elbow, the back of his arm, was
trapped between her breasts! When he swallowed the
mixture, he detected her heartbeat against his
muscle. Sure and steady. Nothing at all like
his.
  He was sitting here beside this woman, a prisoner
to her whiskey-induced embrace. Nothing made
sense. She was drunk and she was legally his
wife. But there was something about her ... something that
made him feel differently toward her. Perhaps it
was admiration for the way she had stood up to him today.
He could even understand her inebriated state. What
he couldn't understand was how this person next to him was
the same sweet compliant woman who had
written to him over the last half year. Too many
things simply didn't make sense. It was
certainly a puzzle, one that he hoped to solve
in the morning. And morning couldn't come soon enough.
  She moved in her sleep and he found himself
growing exceedingly uncomfortable as he brought the
mug back up to his mouth. He gulped the
whiskey-laced coffee and looked out beyond the
campfire. How could this have happened? His only
answer was the noise of the cattle, the whispers of the
men and the crackling of the fire.
  And what the hell did she mean by saying he had
great buns? Surely she couldn't have meant ...?
  Jordan Dillon McCabe knew with a
certainty it was going to be one hell of a long
night.


              Chapter 5

  "Coffee, Miz Elizabeth?"
  One eyelid barely opened, a minute
muscular response to the young voice. Immediately the
pain registered, a sharp blinding light that
penetrated her pupil and traveled with frightening
speed to her brain. Groaning, Elle shut her
eye against the rude glimpse of daylight and
turned her head into the protection of her arm.
  And then she smelled it.
  The mildew of the blanket. The distinct odor
of horses mingled with strong coffee. And worst of
all ... she smelled herself. Blood. Stale
whiskey. And sweat. What the hell had happened
to her?
  Gathering all her strength, Elle raised her
head and forced her eyes open. Squinting, she
refused to believe what she was seeing. It couldn't
be! She blinked rapidly, as if to clear her
eyes, to wipe away the unbelievable scene. It
simply could not be!
  It was supposed to have been a dream!
  "Cap'n said you was to get up now and eat.
We'll be on our way in less'n fifteen
minutes."
  She stared at the young cowboy. Kyle. His name
was Kyle. She remembered that. "What ... what
year is this?" she whispered, terrified of his
answer before he spoke.
  He appeared confused and more than a little
embarrassed by her strange question. "1876,
ma'am."
  Her mouth hung open in shock. She could hear
her own heartbeat in her ears, loud and swift, like
a primitive drumbeat that kept increasing in
volume. The louder it became the more she was filled
with panic, until in a desperate effort
to escape everything, she forced her aching body
to move. She hit her head on a wagon wheel,
yet ignored that added pain as she scrambled to her
feet. It was essential that she get up, get
away ... move! And move she did,
disregarding the shouting of her name as she stumbled and
started running--away from the voices, the living
reminders of a nightmare that refused to end.
  She kept going, running as fast as she could through
a field with nowhere to hide. She kept pushing
herself into a sea of endless tall grass, forcing her
legs to continue though her muscles were screaming at
her to stop. She was gasping for breath, gulping in
huge amounts of air to propel her forward, when a
powerful force wrapped itself around her shoulders and
drew her back.
  "Elizabeth! Stop it!"
  She could hear his breath by her ear as he pulled
her against him. Desperate, she spun around and
slapped at his chest.
  "Get away from me! You don't exist! Go
away ..." She could feel the tears welling up
in her eyes as she shoved him.
  He grasped her arm and held her still. "Why
are you doing this?"
  She looked up at him then. The Captain.
He was breathing as heavily as she was and his
expression was quickly changing from annoyance to concern.
"What's wrong?" he demanded.
  He was real! My God, he was real!
  Accompanying that horrible thought was a wave of
nausea so strong that she felt attacked by the
contraction of her stomach muscles. Her eyes
widened in dread and her hand shot up to cover her
mouth as she reeled away from him and sank to the
ground.
  Digging her nails into the soft earth, Elle
vaguely noticed grasshoppers flying
through the air as she emptied her abused stomach
into the tall grass. Her arms were shaking from
supporting her as she hung her head in
mortification. She was grateful that her hair
fell around her like a tent, shielding her, yet through
the strands she was able to see his hand. In it was an
olive green scarf, the one he had worn around his
neck. Reaching up to take it, she quickly realized
this was the most humiliating experience of her life.
  And the most frightening.
  Because he was real. They were all real. ...
  "Can I help you?"
  Wiping her mouth, she shook her head. She was
afraid to speak, to move, yet she knew that she
must. She tried to rise, and felt his hand on her
arm as he assisted her. A hand--his. It felt
just like any other man's, except his was covered in
a worn leather glove. Like a cowboy. And in her
entire life she had never known anyone like that.
Dear God, was she losing her mind? The cowboy
stood before her, quiet, patiently waiting for her
to make the next move. What did he want from
her? She couldn't look at him, for to do so meant
that she must confront what was taking place.
  And she didn't know what was happening. Or how
it had happened.
  "You should have expected to be sick after last
night," he finally said in a surprisingly gentle
voice. Even though she wasn't looking at him,
she could detect a note of humor in his tone.
  Elle merely nodded. She had nothing to say.
And what does one say to a ghost? For that's what
he had to be. She remembered him talking about being
a Confederate soldier. That had to be what ...?
Eighteen sixty-something? How could it all seem
so real? Trying to reason out the impossible made
her head ache and the dull pain in her upper jaw
returned, reminding her that at sometime yesterday she
had left everything familiar and normal and had come
to this. But what was this? The boy had to be wrong, or
she had heard wrong. Forcing moisture back
into her mouth, she pleaded, "Please ... tell
me. What year is it? Today. Right now ... the
year?"
  For just a moment, his eyes narrowed as he stared
at her. Then, he smiled sympathetically, as if
her question sprang from nothing more than a hangover.
"The year is 1876."
  Elle could only stare at this apparition from the
past. You're only dreaming, she told
herself. This is only a dream, or a
hallucination, or ... or something. Dear God,
it isn't real!
  "We'd better get back now," he said.
  She didn't move.
  "Would you," he hesitated, as if searching for the
proper words, "would you like some privacy first?
I've set up an area ... that is, we've
hung a blanket on the line with the horses and you
could change and ..." His voice trailed off but his
meaning was clear.
  Fighting another bout of nausea, a drilling
headache, and a jaw that felt like Mike Tyson
had assaulted it, Elle simply nodded and
followed him back to the camp. Stop fighting it,
she told herself. It doesn't work. It doesn't
make the nightmare go away. Just go along with it.
Take it to its completion, and then it will cease, she
reasoned. For this could not be happening. It simply
could not be. Intelligence and logic told her so,
and hadn't she always depended on those two
factors to get her out of jams in the past? But
intelligence and logic seemed pathetically
inadequate in a world gone crazy.
  If she thought her humiliation was complete in the
field, then using a latrine, a mere hole in the
ground, demonstrated that further degradations
awaited her at every turn. Surrounded by curious
horses, Elizabeth Mackenzie found out what
real camping was like. She felt completely
justified in having always hated the very idea of
roughing it.
  "Mind your own business," she nearly snarled
to an inquisitive brown beast. Buttoning up
her slacks, she kicked the dirt back into the
hole and shuddered. It was not 1876! It wasn't!
Somewhere right now, her hotel was waiting for her--a
lovely room overlooking Wichita, with a
beautiful bathroom ... a real bathroom with
hot water and soap and a toothbrush awaited her.
And a toilet.
  She looked back down.
  A hole in the ground!
  What she had to do was think about this, really think,
and find a way back.
  Back to her own time.
  "Miz Elizabeth? Cap'n, he said you
might want your trunk now and I was to show you where
it was."
  Turning away from the makeshift
latrine, Elle pushed her hair back from her
face and tried to smile. She might be totally
humiliated, but there wasn't anyone here that had
to know it. If she could handle men from the twentieth
century, then these cowboys should be easy.
  "Thank you, Kyle," she said. Even though she
knew she looked terrible, that her navy gabardine
suit was soiled, her hair hanging in knots and
her face more dirty now than when she was a child,
Elle raised her chin, as if she were walking into the
Mictronix board room. Lifting the corner
of the blanket, she stepped beyond it and faced the men.
  They all stopped whatever they were doing and
looked.
  First she swallowed down her fear, and then
smiled to Kyle. "I believe I would like
to change." As regal as any queen, Elle
held her chin high. She still wore the military
pin with its bronzed elephant on the left side
of her jacket. Her back was so straight, her
attitude so commanding, that it might well have been a
royal crest bestowed on her by the imperial crown.
  The young cowboy nodded and led the way to the front
of Cooky's wagon. He helped her up and then
opened the canvas flap to reveal a large wooden
trunk.
  "Cap'n figured you must've lost the key,
so's he opened it for you. I guess I'll leave
you." He turned to go, and then stopped.
"Cooky'll give you ten minutes or so and then
we got to get goin', okay?"
  She tried to smile. "Okay."
  When she was alone, Elle closed the canvas
and turned to the trunk. There was barely any room
to move around in the wagon. Boxes were stacked
everywhere. Carefully sidestepping a rather large one,
she sat on another and reached out for the trunk. The
lid opened quite easily. Even though Elle felt
sick she was still able to marvel at the beautifully
decorated interior. Padded green and rose
chintz was edged in delicate lace. There were
drawers with tiny glass knobs and neatly folded
garments. It seemed a shame to touch anything, but
she was desperate.
  Reaching out a soiled hand, Elle pulled up a
deep green two-piece dress with a tiny white
collar. It was heavy and she would probably die
in the heat this afternoon. She reasoned that she could always
take off the top later in the day, but it was clean.
And right now that was all that mattered. Within
minutes she had placed her slacks to one side
of the wagon. She rummaged through the trunk and found
underwear, at least she thought it was underwear. Made
of fine cotton lawn, the material felt soft
next to her skin. She mentally apologized to the
missing Cynthia for using her things as she pulled
the green skirt over her head.
  Suddenly she was assaulted by a wave of
dizziness. It could have been the fact that she was
hung over, or that she hadn't had anything
nourishing to eat or drink in twenty-four hours,
or even that she had lost blood. But inside,
down deep, where explanations weren't quite so easy,
something told her it wasn't any of that. It was
something strange and uncertain. It happened when she
put on the dress. It was as if she were taking
over this woman's life ... her place in this
time.
  Shaking off the ridiculous thought, Elle quickly
buttoned the dress and bent down to open a drawer
in the trunk. Just as she thought, inside was a brush
and hand mirror, decorated hair pins, ribbons
and a fine brown hair net.
  How did she know which drawer would contain such
things?
  Afraid of the answer, she reached out and picked
up the brush and ran it through her hair. She
ignored the pain as the sharp bristles pulled through
the tight knots from the day before. Elle gathered her
hair back and tied it with a thick white ribbon.
She carefully replaced the brush and only then
did she give in to the unexplainable need that made
her fingers close over the silver handle of the
mirror.
  Slowly, already dreading what she would find,
Elle brought the glass up to her face.
  Her breath caught at the back of her throat.
Her heart actually skipped a beat. She was
staring at a familiar face, but it wasn't hers!
It was her mother's image, as she looked when
Elle last saw her. Sad. Weary. Defeated
by life. In the glass was the perfect reflection
of her mother!
  It lasted only a few seconds, perhaps
merely one or two, but in that minute span of time
she was completely immobilized by the pain in the
woman's face--the acceptance of a life that held
no promises--the biding of time until it was
over. My God, it was vivid! She forced her
eyes closed, as if the simple action
might wipe the insane image from her mind. Her
mother! Confused, and more than a little frightened, Elle
told herself that the very idea was crazy, impossible,
yet she was hesitant to look again.
  Compelled, yet fighting it, she slowly opened
her eyes.
  She released her breath in a sigh of relief.
Thank God. Surely she must have imagined it
all. The face staring back at her, though
definitely grimy and smudged with dirt, was her
own. Her own! Even in the insanity of her
situation she had a brief surge of joy to find
herself gazing upon her own face. This cannot be
happening, she told herself for the hundredth time.
Things like this do not happen to ordinary people.
  As if to remind her of her mortality, a
throbbing ache resumed in her upper jaw. She
brought her fingers up to her cheek and gingerly touched
it. The nerve endings under her skin felt raw and
she tried to open her mouth to see her gum. Using
her fingernail, she pulled back her lip.
  There were two tiny black stitches.
  She wasn't going crazy. That dentist had
removed her back molar. She tried to think,
to remember. He'd given her gas--
nitrous-something or other. She'd felt like she was
flying. Everything was great until ... until ...
  Damn it, why couldn't she remember?
  Something had caused this to happen.
  "Miz Elizabeth? You ready?"
  Startled, she dropped the mirror. "In a
minute," she called out, though her stomach was already
rebelling at the thought of moving. Slowly, Elle
reached down and picked up the mirror. Turning it
over to inspect the glass, she couldn't suppress
a groan of frustration. Dear God, what else
could happen?
  "Seven years bad luck," she whispered in a
defeated voice, while running a fingertip over
a hairline crack in the upper corner. She was
certain it hadn't been there before. "Seven years!
I won't last," she murmured while replacing
the mirror in the drawer and closing the trunk.
"I can't believe I got through a day of this.
It's like losing your mind, and knowing it ..."
  "You saying somethin', Miz Elizabeth?"
Kyle asked from outside.
  She closed her eyes and willed her stomach
to remain calm. "I'm coming," she said, though her
body was telling her to find a bed and pull
the covers up over her head. Forcing the inviting
thought from her mind, Elle stood up and made her
way out the front of the wagon.
  She had done no more than open the canvas
flap when she saw him behind Kyle. Damn it,
if he wasn't just as good-looking as she had
remembered. But she had thought that was only a
dream. Even in the field she hadn't really
looked at him, too humiliated by what had
happened. Now, in the morning sunlight, he was
most definitely alive ... and male. He
honest-to-God looked like Mel Gibson with now
a two-day-old growth of beard. Only more
cynical. And he was holding out a cup of coffee
to her.
  "I hope you like it black." He directed his
words to her while looking at the young man. As if
they had silently communicated in some strange
cowboy language, she watched as Kyle left
without saying another word.
  Reaching out, she took the cup. "Black is
fine," Elle murmured, sitting on the bench that
served as a front seat to the wagon. She
wrapped her hands around the tin cup for warmth.
Even though she knew the day would grow hot, at the
moment she was chilled.
  In the back of her brain she knew it was because of
what had happened in front of the trunk. About her
mother. Maybe this had something to do with her mother. What
if she wasn't all right? What if that bastard
had hit her again? But she couldn't think about her
parents, and why her mother refused to leave. Not now.
Now she had to deal with this man who was staring at her
as if she were from another planet. If it wouldn't
have hurt her face, she might have laughed at the
thought. Anything was possible, and nothing was as it should
have been. Absolutely nothing.
  She brought the cup to her mouth and sipped. The
coffee hit her empty stomach like a twenty-pound
sledgehammer and she moaned aloud.
  "The men call it six-shooter coffee because you
could float a pistol in it."
  She tried to smile but was unsuccessful. "I
believe it," she admitted. Nevertheless, she
continued to take small sips of the powerful brew.
  From the corner of her eye, she noticed that he
appeared uncomfortable, as if he were waiting for
something, or some opportunity. She couldn't tell
from his face for half of it was obscured by the large
hat that he wore. It had more to do with body
language. He had changed his shirt, but he
looked like he had slept in the rest of his clothes.
And he stood very straight, almost formally, just like
someone preparing to make an announcement.
  Listening to him clear his throat, Elle
realized that she was about to hear the reason for his
behavior.
  "I had planned to talk to you this morning,
Elizabeth," he started off in a perfectly
polite voice. "Since you're not feeling
well, I believe I can postpone it until
lunch. But then we must talk. Do you understand?"
  She understood nothing, yet managed to nod her
head--anything to make him go away, for when he
lifted his chin she could see intense blue eyes,
eyes that seemed to look beyond her features and
recognize the impostor. Again she felt the need
to tell him the truth--that she wasn't his precious
Cynthia, yet something held her back. She
needed to be stronger. Yes, that was it. She'd do it
after lunch, when she was feeling better. And then they
would be close to a town. He had said something about a
town. Caldwell. She remembered that. She would
wait until they were near this place.
  It made sense, for she had a feeling that she was
going to need the protection of others when this man
found out how she had deceived him.
  As if enough hadn't happened to fill her with
dread, now she would have this high noon verbal
shoot-out with a cowboy. Seeing the sullen Cooky
approach the wagon, she realized this day held very
little promise.

  She wouldn't look again. She told herself that if
she did she had no one to blame but herself. They
hadn't been on the trail for very long when she
noticed that the countryside was littered with the
remains of animals--skulls of cattle with
horns over four feet in width, the bloated
bodies of others, or half-eaten carcasses that
fed dozens of birds. Each time her morbid
curiosity made her glance toward the grotesque
forms, her stomach would lurch up into her throat and
she would clasp her hand over her mouth. But there was
nothing else to do, save sit and look. It
wasn't as if her traveling companion cared
to chat. Cooky tended to grunt in reply to her
attempts at conversation. And what she wouldn't
give for a pair of sunglasses! She seemed
tortured by the glare of the sun. It
produced a monster headache that wouldn't quit.
Okay, okay, she was hung over, but she was
sick. She shouldn't be expected to make this
pioneer trek into the wilderness. Mile after
mile, they rode across the barren, empty land.
There was little noise as the ground seemed to swallow
up the trampling of the hooves behind her.
  She and Cooky rode ahead of the others.
Once, when she had looked back, she saw that
McCabe was far behind them, leading a huge
lumbering black bull. In back of him was the
herd of cattle she remembered Traver and
Kyle telling her about--McCabe's precious
Herefords, a sea of red bodies with broad
white faces. Now that she thought about it, they were the
reason he hadn't been in Wichita to meet his
mail order bride. She started to grin. That's
how she'd do it. She'd turn the tables on him and
say if he'd cared enough he would have been there and this
mistake would have never happened. When one thought about
it, it was clearly his fault. She was high on
drugs, or gas, or something, and couldn't be held
responsible for her actions. He, on the other
hand, appeared to care more about a herd of dumb
animals than his new wife. Poor Cynthia,
wherever she was, was better off. But then the guilt
came rushing back. What happened to the woman?
When she thought about all the lives that had been
damaged by the situation, Elle's headache only
increased.
  She'd fix it. Somehow she'd find a way
to turn everything around. Trying to ignore the intense
pain in her head, the dull ache of her jaw, and the
dry twisting of her stomach muscles, Elle
turned to her traveling companion and widely
grinned.
  Filled with false goodwill, she said, "Do you
mind if I just call you Arlyn? That is your name,
isn't it?"
  The old man grunted.
  Again she smiled. She would not be defeated.
"Well, Arlyn, where are you from?"
  She ignored the long stream of spit that the man
shot out to the ground.
  "Around."
  She nodded. It was a beginning. It was a word.
"Around where? Here?"
  "Texas."
  Now she was getting somewhere. "Texas. I've
never been there. Is it exciting?"
Talk to me, she silently pleaded, for if left
in silence she would think, and it was all too much
to think about right now.
  "Texas is Texas." A man of few
words, Arlyn scratched the side of his face against
his shoulder.
  "How did you come to be a cook?" Please
talk. "Do you like it?" She couldn't think of
anything else to say to him. Most men loved
to talk about their jobs, at least in her time--
  "Cook's the most important member of the
trail outfit. Just ask the Cap'n. He'll
tell ya. Being cook means taking charge of the
chuckwagon. All the food, stuff to cook it in
and the extra supplies for the drive. Can't some
ordinary man handle all that."
  It was a veritable speech. She was impressed
and hurried to answer for fear that he'd crawl
back into his shell of silence. "I can imagine.
I'm sorry I couldn't eat last night. My
mouth was too sore to chew, but I did hear
everyone saying how good it was."
  Every cook loves a compliment and Arlyn was no
exception. He grunted.
  "Ahh ..." Her mind searched for another
topic of conversation. He wouldn't know business,
nor care about her sales record, and she knew
diddley about cattle drives. "How far away
from Caldwell are we?" Somehow that town sounded like
her only refuge right now.
  Arlyn looked up to the sky and muttered,
"'Bout half a day, maybe less." After
once more spitting, he wiped his mouth on his
sleeve and returned his attention to the
well-traveled ruts in front of the horses.
It was clear their conversation was over.
  She didn't mind that he had the manners of a
farm animal, that he looked like he hadn't come in
contact with bath water in weeks. She even made
a heroic attempt to ignore the fact that he
smelled. Since she hadn't bathed since
yesterday morning, she didn't feel particularly
superior on that score. What galled her was being
shut out, like she wasn't worth the effort it took
to speak. She knew why she wasn't accepted--
she had shamed their leader--McCabe. She was not
the wife any of them had expected. She could just
imagine their collective relief when they found
out the truth.
  Two hours later she couldn't have cared
what any of them thought. She was in agony.
  This time she was sure she was dying. No matter
how hard she pressed her fist against the center of
her forehead she couldn't stop the blinding pain. Her
head felt too big for her neck to support and
she was having trouble sitting upright. She felt the
sun beating down on her like a hot wave and she
wanted to strip off the heavy top to cool off. Every
time the wagon hit a bump Elle thought she would
scream, but even that would take too much effort.
She told herself that she could make it until they
stopped for lunch, that she wouldn't be any more trouble,
but it was becoming more and more difficult to remain upright
and silent.
  And then they passed another carcass, this one
dark and dry and leathery with a whitened rib cage
bleached by the sun. The monstrous half-face of the
animal seemed to look back at her with a
cadaverous grin, as if it were laughing at her
plight ... and that's when Elizabeth
Mackenzie's willpower broke. She simply
could not go on.
  "Please, Arlyn ... stop the wagon. I'm
going to be sick."
  He merely grunted in response.
  "I'm going to be sick," she repeated, hearing
the rising hysteria in her voice. "Let me out."
  The old man looked up to the sun. "We'll
be stoppin' for lunch in about--"
  "I don't care," she interrupted. "I have
to get out. Stop the wagon! Now!"
  He muttered something under his breath about being
Prairie Loco and yanked back on the
brake. She didn't even wait until the
wagon had come to a complete halt. Stumbling
down, she ran out into the field and collapsed into the
tall, dry grass.
  There was nothing left in her stomach. It felt
so good to lie down, to close her eyes against the
glaring heat of the sun. Her face was so hot that she
must be sunburned. She simply could not get
back on that wagon. This is where she had to stay.
It was hushed and calm and still. If she remained here
in the grass then she would at least die in peace.
  "What are you doing?"
  It was .his voice. And it sounded annoyed. She
didn't open her eyes. "I'm dying. Leave
me alone." Her lips felt thick and heavy, and
dry.
  "Elizabeth, get up. Everyone's
watching."
  "Go away." She could sleep if he'd just
leave her alone. But it hurt to think, to open her
eyes, to move, even to talk. Surely she was
dying. She would be like those grisly animals that had
expired along the trail. Someday someone would gag
over her remains.
  "You are merely feeling the effects of last
night's whiskey, now let me help you up.
Any minute now the herd is going to be coming. You
could be trampled."
  "Do not touch me." It hurt to speak. The
herd. So that was the rumbling in the ground. She
didn't care. At least she would be out of her
misery. "I am not getting back in that wagon.
Take your cows and go to ... go to Texas. Just
let me be. I can't go on." She felt an
insect land on her cheek, but didn't care.
"Please ..." she barely whispered, "go
away."
  She groaned when he touched her, yet felt
too weak to offer resistance.
  "My God, Elizabeth, you're burning
up!"
  She tried to open her eyes to look at him.
He was above her; his face was filled with concern.
"Yeah? I am?" Finally it all made sense,
why every bone in her body ached. She tried to help
when he gathered her into his arms, but she could only
grab hold of his shirt.
  In her entire life no male had ever carried
her. Not her father. Not a lover. No one. And now
this stranger did so with ease. She was about to say
something nice to him, to apologize for everything, when
the most incredible and welcoming thing happened.
  Darkness clouded her vision, like the closing of a
tunnel, and she began to pass out. She could feel
the black edge of it wrapping around her like a warm,
comforting blanket. And for the first time since her
arrival to this time, Elle stopped fighting and
experienced peace.
  "Cooky! Pull out that mattress. Make
room for her in the wagon." He carried her
back, feeling the heat of her body through the heavy
fabric of her clothes. How could he have not seen that
she was truly sick this morning?
  Blaming himself, Jordan vowed not to neglect
her again. With Elizabeth safely ensconced in the
back of the chuckwagon, he rode up to Traver
and told him the situation.
  "I'm going to take her to that farm we passed
on the way north. It's closer than
Caldwell." He looked at the Herefords, the
animals that he was building a dream on, and
added, "I'll have to stay with her. You take the herd
on. I'll catch up."
  Traver scratched his chin. "Whatever you say,
Cap'n. 'Cept that nester ain't gonna like you
comin' on his land and askin' for favors. If I
remember rightly, he had himself a Winchester and
watched to make sure we didn't mess up none
of his wheat crop on our way north. You're not
steppin' into exactly friendly territory there."
  Jordan breathed hard, impatient to be on his
way. "You may be right," he admitted and
reluctantly added, "Cut me out a weak one,
Traver, one that would have trouble making it
to Texas." He shook his head. "I didn't
think I'd lose one this soon."
  Traver touched the tip of his hat in respect.
"Yes, sir. We'll wait up for you outside
Caldwell then?"
  Jordan glanced back to the chuckwagon.
"No. You're trail boss now. We've lost
too much time. Now that they're moving, I don't
want them stopped for a day or two. You keep
going and we'll find you. I'll send Cooky
back as soon as we get to the farm."
  "Good luck to you, sir. I'll watch over them
as if they were my own."
  "They are yours, Traver. You and every man on
this drive has a percentage of the Triple
Cross. You'll do fine." Jordan reached out and
touched his friend's shoulder. Ten years earlier
Traver Diggs had been his First Sergeant in a
war that had destroyed the world as they had known it.
Now, together, they were trying to build a new one.
Before either man could comment, Jordan jerked the reins
to the left and rode back to where Cooky waited for
him.
  "How's she doing?"
  The old man glanced over his shoulder. "She was
real quiet, but now she's mumblin' somethin'.
Can't rightly make it out."
  Delirium. The fever was rising. "Let's
go," he ordered and rode next to the wagon as they
left behind his dream, his future.
  It took every ounce of willpower that he
possessed not to look back.

  Within an hour they came upon the small sod
house, planted in the center of a wheat field. It
looked dark, cold and uninviting, and as they came
closer Jordan could see the farmer standing in
front of the miserable place with his Winchester across
his chest. He was clad in an old shirt that was
streaked with sweat and dirt. His baggy pants were
held up with huge suspenders. His hair was
short, almost shorn, making his ears stick out. He
was thin, near gaunt-looking, with cheekbones that
stood out in relief. Deep circles framed his
eyes. His beard was trimmed, yet hid the line
of his mouth. Nowhere in the man's expression was there
a hint of welcome.
  "I have a sick woman. I need a place for
her to recover."
  "This ain't no goddamned hotelery," the man
spat out. "I got two young 'uns and my own
woman. Ain't no room for yours."
  "I'll pay."
  The man's eyes narrowed. "How much?"
  "How much you want?"
  "Five dollars."
  "Fine." He wasn't about to haggle.
Elizabeth needed nursing.
  "Where'd you get that cow?"
  Now it was coming. "Wichita." Jordan could
see the man's wife peeking out from behind the door.
She was as pathetic and worn down as the man.
"It's called a Hereford. I brought it
to trade."
  The gun lowered a fraction. "Trade what?"
  "The woman needs nursing. She has a
fever. Nothing contagious. I believe it's
caused by the removal of a tooth. I can't nurse
her on the trail. She needs a place to rest and
someone to look after her."
  "She your wife?"
  He didn't hesitate. "Yes."
  The farmer considered it for a moment then said,
"Bring her then. Ain't had no beef in months.
The young 'uns can sleep on the ground."
  When Jordan turned to Cooky, the man
added, "Five dollars a day it is, and you help
me butcher the cow."
  Looking up at his old friend, Jordan shouted
out his agreement to the farmer, then said in a lower
voice, "After we get Elizabeth in,
Cooky, I want you to get back to the herd.
When you reach Caldwell, buy a
buckboard and send Kyle back with it. I want
to get out of here as soon as possible."
  "Yes, Cap'n," Cooky answered in a
whisper. "He looks crazy, don't he? Like
he spent too long out here, or somethin'."
  Jordan didn't glance back at the man who
was shouting for his wife. "I don't have any
choice. She's burning up." He cradled
Elizabeth's shoulders against his chest. "Just
don't waste any time in getting Kyle moving."
  Between him and Cooky they managed to get
Elizabeth out of the wagon. As he was carrying her
up to the sod house, he heard the farmer's cold
voice as the man addressed his wife.
  "You tend that cattleman's woman, you hear
me? And keep those bastards away from her. He
says it ain't contagious but I ain't takin'
any chances."
  It was worse inside than he had expected.
The children were lined up like frightened animals against a
wall papered in old yellowed newspapers. It
was dark and the ceiling still dripped in places from the
rain two days ago. A bed of sorts was off
to one dry corner and he called out to Cooky who
waited at the door. "Bring me the mattress from
the wagon and some clean linen from her trunk."
Having no idea what she would need when she
recovered, he added, "You'd better bring in the
trunk and leave it."
  Within minutes he was able to lay Elizabeth
down and stand back. The woman and children gathered around
the bed and stared.
  "Is she a princess, Momma?" the small
boy whispered. "Like in the stories you--"
  He was hushed by an older sister. The mother, a
small, weary-looking woman with severely
pulled-back hair, nervously wrung her hands
together. "This ... this here's your wife, mister?"
Her voice was hesitant, as if she didn't
often speak with men.
  Jordan turned to the ragged group and nodded.
"Yes, she is. Can you help her?"
  Before anyone could answer, he heard the short
bellow of the cow as its throat was slit. He
caught Cooky's angered expression and shook his
head.
  The farmer wasn't wasting any time and neither would
he.
  "Go on, Arlyn," he ordered in a clipped
voice.
  There was no need for further communication.

              Chapter 6

  She heard a rhythmic ping, like a badly
wound alarm clock. It was steady and annoying, and
it wasn't going away. She didn't want
to pay attention to it, for to do so meant that she must also
become aware of other things ... like how her eyes
felt heavy and scratchy, as if someone had thrown
sand into them. Even without trying, she knew they would
hurt too much to open. So she didn't. Yet
her nose was sending messages to her sleepy
brain, a signal for food, and her stomach
contracted with hunger. Something primitive and
wild stirred within her at the tantalizing aroma.
Her once dry throat became moist as she
actually salivated. Hungry, she knew she
would have to open her eyes to discover the source of the
teasing scents. Slowly, as if she hadn't done
so in many days, Elle forced her lids apart.
  And the nightmare continued.
  No more than two feet away was a creature
from hell. Huge and brown, it was covered in long
hair. Its mouth was hidden behind immense whiskers,
though its pointed nose seemed to hold her in
disdain. But the most frightening was its two beady
eyes, moist black caverns that appeared
to swallow her up. A scream built up in the
back of her throat, yet she was helpless to bring
it forth. The muscles of her neck felt
paralyzed and she was only able to issue a muffled
squeal.
  It was enough to send the thing scurrying.
  "Noah! Get away from the lady."
  Elle's eyes were most certainly opened now.
A child, no more than five or six, stood at her
side and grinned.
  "Momma named him Noah 'cause every time it
rains he comes in. He won't hurt you none
though," the blond-haired boy whispered in
amusement. He smiled at her shyly. "He's
just a mouse--"
  "Cory Woodson! You leave that lady be."
A female voice lightly scolded the child and
Elle looked up into the eyes of a pretty
teenager. She and the boy must be related for they
both had the same color hair, the same heavy
sprinkling of freckles over their noses, and the
same intensely curious expressions.
  The girl smiled, showing dimples, and lifted
her voice to call out, "Momma? She's
awake."
  Elle looked around her, certain she had gone
from one nightmare into another. It appeared that she was
in a room made out of dirt, with ... with
newspapers lining one wall, as if it were the most
natural wallcovering, and old crates nailed
up for shelves. There was canvas hanging over the
area where she was lying and if she turned her head
to look into the dimly lit room she could see
black pots on the dirt floor to catch the
occasional drip from the ceiling, the annoying sound that
had intruded into her sleep. But into what had she
awakened? What new kind of nightmare was this?
  A small woman pushed past the children,
quietly telling them to go outside. When she
stood next to the bed, she looked at Elle and
said, "How are you feeling, Mrs. McCabe?"
  Elle could only stare at her. Mrs.
McCabe? Who was this person? Obviously,
she was the children's mother. Her hair was brown though still
holding a hint of the blond that must have been there
years before. Parted in the middle it was pulled
severely back into a tight knot. Her slight
frame was covered in a long black dress.
Brown stains smeared the front of an apron that
she smoothed down with red, bony hands. But it was
her face, a painfully thin mask of hardship, that
tugged at Elle's heart.
  It reminded her of her mother.
  "Your fever's down?" the woman asked shyly
while coming closer.
  "Fever?" Elle's throat felt raw.
"Who ... who are you?"
  The woman smiled and her face was transformed.
There was a trace of the lovely girl she must have
been. "Phoebe Woodson. Your husband brought
you here."
  "My husband?" Elle's brain refused
to register that piece of information.
  "He's out with Mr. Woodson, my ... my
husband." Phoebe appeared uncomfortable with the
subject and quickly changed it. "I've made some
soup with the beef you brought and my own put-up
onions and potatoes and such. Maybe tomorrow we can
have a real Sunday dinner?"
  Elle nodded, thoroughly confused. Just as she was
about to ask where this husband was, she heard a harsh
voice coming from outside.
  "Get your reedy ass over here, girl, and
take this. Tell your mother she can cook it up for
me."
  Elle looked up to the woman in front of her
for an explanation, but Phoebe's worried
expression only increased when they heard the child's
hesitant answer.
  "Please, Poppa, let me get a towel
first."
  "Now! I'm not gonna hold it forever."
  Phoebe turned and grabbed a long dish towel
off the back of one of the three chairs in the home
and ran outside. Feeling the urgency in
Phoebe's actions Elle held her breath as
she waited for the next words. They shocked her, for
they were familiar.
  "Let her be, Woodson. Hand it here, if
you must."
  Jordan Dillon McCabe. She knew the
sound of him and a mental picture filled her
mind. Memories flooded back to her--of
trail drives and tall, lean cowboys ... and
one in particular.
  "Here, Joseph," Phoebe said in a
conciliatory voice. "Why not let me take
it?"
  "Because I asked her. Ain't never gonna
make some man a wife if she's treated like a
child. Now get over here, girl, before I take a
strap to you. Don't you shame me in front of
strangers."
  Something tightened inside Elle at the man's
words. He was angry and domineering, depending on
sheer strength and power to subdue. It was all too
familiar and she hated him without even laying eyes
on the man.
  He sounded just like her father.
  She pulled herself out of bed, holding on to the
mattress for support. A wave of dizziness
washed over her, but she fought it. Something deep
inside was pushing her forward to the canvas-covered
window. Her fingernails dug into the blackened earth
wall as she steadied herself before pulling back the
small curtain to look outside.
  Nothing could have prepared her.
  A man was holding out a bloodied object to the
young girl, demanding that she take it. His arms were
covered in slick red blood and bile rose in
her throat when Elle was able to distinguish the thing that
he shoved at the crying teenager. It
looked like a ... a tongue. Her brain
scarcely registered the butchered carcass of the cow
as her heart reached out to the frightened girl. Only
minutes ago she had stood at the foot of the bed,
smiling, silently asking for friendship. Now she was
crying, cowering in front of the man. And Elle
knew, just like with her father, that this bastard needed
to feel superior and could only do it by bullying those
who weren't able to defend themselves.
  "Stop it!" The words burst from her throat in a
strong, impassioned command. Everyone turned, as if
frozen, and stared at her. And that's when she saw
him.
  "Elizabeth!"
  For just a moment, before he had called out to her,
she had seen contempt for the man in his expression.
It pained him to be part of that scene. He, too,
was wearing a long apron, the front covered in
blood. They were butchering one of his precious
cows. She knew, as if they had already
communicated, that he was only there by circumstances
beyond his control. Somehow she knew it had something to do
with her and she was saddened to have put him in that
position. Now, staring back at her, he only
looked concerned.
  "You tell your woman to mind her own business,
McCabe. I don't have to take that kind of
interference from a guest in my house."
  Suddenly spurred into action, Jordan picked
up a nearby bowl and held it out. "Put it in
here and be done with it, man. The child's too upset
now. She'd probably drop it."
  He could see that his words had their effect as the
farmer weighed them and saw the possibility of his
losing out on the delicacy. With a shrug,
Woodson dropped the tongue into the wide bowl and
went back to work on the carcass. Jordan handed
the bowl to the small, trembling woman and then said
to her husband, "Were my wife truly a guest
in your house, sir, I would question your hospitality
for creating such a scene. As we are paying,
overpaying, for our lodging, I must applaud her
interference."
  Jordan turned back to the small opening in the
sod and smiled. He was actually proud of her.
Elizabeth, obviously still weak, shyly
returned his greeting. Without another word, he
left the angry farmer to his grisly task and
walked to the windmill. Once there, he untied the
heavy apron and wiped away the blood
on his hands. He felt like grieving for the animal,
but realized the stupidity of that emotion. It was
only an animal. Better to think that it would
nourish the overly thin woman and her children. Better
not to think of the farmer at all, Jordan reasoned
as he pumped water up from the ground. Holding his
hands under the cool spray, he washed the blood from
his palms and pushed Joseph Woodson from his
mind. There was something far more important
to concentrate on--Elizabeth.
  As he scrubbed at his hands, Jordan
silently admitted that he had been frightened at the
possibility that she might not recover.
Surely, it was only concern. He wasn't
attached in any way. But there was something in the
back of his brain that denied the possibility, and
he refused to acknowledge it. Tomorrow, if she was up
to it, they would leave this place and decide their
future. When she was well, they would have their
talk.
  He would either leave Caldwell with a wife, or
return to the herd and the Triple Cross alone.
Drying his hands on the front of his shirt,
Jordan stared down at the dripping water. In
truth, he wasn't sure how he wanted it
to turn out.

  "It's only tea, made from the bark of the
willow. I used it to bring down your fever. Go
ahead, it's good for you." Phoebe held out the
cup to her.
  Back in bed, Elle swallowed down her
distaste. She didn't want to be rude, yet it
hardly sounded appetizing. "Gee, I don't
know, Phoebe. I don't have a fever any
longer and to be honest it doesn't sound like something
I'd exactly enjoy."
  "Oh, go on with you," Cory teased and a
dimple appeared on his freckled cheek. "It's
not so bad. I had some when I was sick."
  Thoroughly enchanted with the child, Elle grinned
back at him. Despite his dismal surroundings
he was full of life, of mischief. "Would you like
some now? There's more than enough for the two of us."
  He giggled with pleasure. "Oh, no you
don't, Miz Elizabeth. That's for you. It'll
make you better. Momma says so."
  Elle grimaced, knowing the child was enjoying her
reluctance. "You're sure it's good, Cory?
You wouldn't tease me, just to make me
swallow it, would you?"
  He firmly shook his head, yet she could see
him biting the side of his cheek to keep from laughing.
He was absolutely adorable, a miniature
Huck Finn. Because of his short hair even his
ears stuck out to complete the picture. He was
all boy--and a vivid reminder that she would never have
a son or a daughter to call her own. Shaking
off the depressing thought, Elle smiled back at
him. "I suppose I don't have any other
choice, do I?"
  Cory again shook his head. "Nope."
  Elle sipped the tea, then grimaced at the
bitter taste. The youngster laughed at her
expression and fell onto the bottom of the bed in
a fit of giggles.
  "Cory, get up," his mother ordered gently.
  "He's fine," Elle answered, wanting the
child's company.
  Hearing the laughter, Cory's sister walked
over to the bed. Elle had noticed that the girl was
subdued ever since the incident with her father.
Wanting to ease her embarrassment, Elle had
tried to smile at her each time the child glanced across
the room. She knew her name from overhearing
Phoebe calming her daughter and was only waiting
for the right opportunity to draw the girl out. Although
Cory was a reminder of the role that was denied her in
the future, it was his sister, Julie, that
Elle's heart reached out to--a child of poverty and
abuse. How well she knew that child of her past
...
  Searching for a topic to include the girl,
Elle smiled at her. "How old are you?" she
asked in a polite voice. She didn't want
to push, for she recognized that Julie was beginning
to build a wall around her for protection. Elle
had done it herself at about the same age.
  "Fourteen," Julie answered without making
eye contact.
  "You seem so grown up for fourteen."
  "Julie's a big help," Phoebe added.
"Lonely for a girl out here, though."
  Elle looked up to the woman. "It must be
lonely for all of you."
  "Sometimes we have play parties and dances--though
not much dancing gets done. Word goes out and people come
from all around. Wagons and buggies as far as the
eye can see." Phoebe gazed down to her apron
and used her nail to scratch at a stain.
"Probably doesn't seem like much to someone from the
city, but after months out here with nothing but the wind for
company, it seems downright festive."
  Elle smiled. "I'm sure it is."
  "Mr. Handsen brings his fiddle," Cory
chimed in. "Bobby Ray plays his mouth harp.
Near everybody can call figures, 'cept me
'cause I'm too little. I like the games, like
London Bridge, Drop the Handkerchief.
Julie likes Spin the
Bottle--"
  His sister slapped his shoulder in embarrassment.
  "Anyway," Phoebe continued, "we make
do." She looked worn and beaten by life, just like
Elle's mother. "Now, I'd better get back
to my stove." She appeared uncomfortable. "Mr.
Woodson will expect a fine dinner tonight. What
with the beef, and everything ..."
  Elle nodded, hating to see the subservient
attitude in the other woman. But this isn't
your time, she told herself. For whatever reason,
you're stuck here with these people. It's not going to go
away. There's a reason, Elle. You must think
...
  "Don't you ever have to pee?"
  "Cory!" Julie yelled at her brother.
  "Cory Woodson, watch your tongue!"
Phoebe looked at Elle and silently pleaded
with her for understanding. "We don't have company very
often. I'm afraid I'll have to work on his
manners."
  Elle couldn't help grinning as she looked at
the scolded youngster. "Well, as a matter of
fact, Cory has a point there. What are the
... ah, the arrangements?"
  Phoebe apologized. "I'm sorry. We
have an outhouse and of course there's the ..." and she
lowered her voice, "the pot."
  It didn't take long for Elle to make up
her mind. The last time she had been forced with this
decision it had been a hole in the ground. An
outhouse sounded downright private. She took
hold of the edge of the sheet and stated, "I think
I'd like a bit of fresh air."
  "Julie will help you," Phoebe quickly added.
"I hope you don't mind that we opened your
trunk. For your nightclothes, and everything. Once
you broke the fever, your husband insisted that we
change you as often as necessary."
  Her husband? Jordan was that concerned?
Of course he must have been to leave his herd and bring
her here. Filled with a sudden warmth for the cowboy,
Elle smiled at the woman. "Thank you for
taking care of me, and of course I don't mind.
Not at all."
  Very slowly, she swung her legs over the
side of the bed and Cory hurried to offer her a
pair of high-top shoes. She looked for her own
leather loafers with the shiny cordovan tassels, but
they were nowhere to be seen. She felt like the
stepsister in Cinderella as she tried to force her
feet into the small old-fashioned shoes.
Everyone was looking at her and she glanced up and
shrugged. "My feet must have swelled with the fever,"
she offered weakly.
  The woman and children agreed.
  "Did you see any others?" Elle asked in
a hopeful voice.
  "Just the slippers you had on when you came."
  "They're fine." Elle breathed a sigh of
relief when she saw Phoebe open the trunk and
pull out her worn but comfortable Aigner loafers.
  They looked almost new. Someone had polished
them to a fine sheen. Her expression must have conveyed
the question for Phoebe said with a note of pride,
"Julie used a small bit of saddle soap and
brought the shine back to them."
  Elle turned to the young girl. "Thank you."
  Julie shrugged, as if to say it wasn't
anything. But Elle knew better.
  "You didn't happen to find a robe in that
trunk, did you?"
  Julie nodded and hurried to find it. She
carefully handed over a soft white cotton
robe, embroidered with a fine lemon stitching. As
Elle put it on she could see how the young
girl's eyes nearly caressed the lovely
garment. At that moment, Elle made up her mind
to leave it for Julie tomorrow. She hoped that
Cynthia would understand the distribution of her things, and
she then shrugged. What did she care? If she
ever saw the woman she'd explain.
  It took a moment to steady herself and then Elle
smiled at the teenager. As her arm went around the
young girl's shoulders, Elle could feel how thin
she was. Life was so unfair. This poor child
didn't stand much of a chance to live a life any
different than her mother's. As they left the dirt
house, Elle lifted her chin and breathed in the
evening air.
  "Ahh ... that smells wonderful."
  "The house gets musty after it rains."
  "I didn't mean to imply anything--"
  "That's all right," Julie interrupted as they
slowly walked to the distant building. "It must
look pretty bad to someone like you."
  Not knowing what else to say, Elle murmured,
"I'm sure it will get better in time."
  "I saw you looking at the newspapers.
They're better than plain dirt walls and
Cory's learning his letters by spelling out the
advertisements."
  Elle nodded as they passed a pen built of
light poles and brush. The wind was blowing up,
and the two scrawny chickens inside the enclosure
were greeting it as a welcome change. "You and your
mother work very hard. I guess everybody does out
here." She honestly didn't know if she could
survive this, knowing there wasn't any way out.
There was nothing but the field of wheat. No trees.
No other houses. Nothing but the wind.
  "They call us Sodbusters because we wear heavy
plow shoes and our clothes are faded by the sun and
wind. The people in town make fun of us because we
build our houses out of sod and don't live like
them. They look at us like we were the dirt beneath their
feet."
  Elle felt her shrug. "We don't go
into Caldwell much anymore. Been near a year
now."
  Looking around the small farm, Elle said,
"You can't have lived here very long."
  "Three years. Poppa bought some Turkey
Red wheat from the Mennonites and staked out this
claim. Been here ever since."
  Three years. That was a long time in a young
girl's life. Wanting to cheer her up, Elle
said brightly, "When we get back to the house, do
you think you could help me straighten out that trunk?
It seems I've packed far too much."
  Julie's eyes brightened at the suggestion.
"Of course. Won't be any trouble. After I
help Momma with supper, I could help you."
  Elle nodded. "I really feel much better.
Why don't I help you and your mother and then we can
attack that trunk?"
  Julie's smile was bright with excitement, and it
tore at Elle's heart. In that moment she
made up her mind. Cynthia was going to lose more
than a robe to this family.

  He came in the door, filling it with his size.
Phoebe glanced up and shyly bent her head
back over her pots. Julie stared down at the
shoes in her lap, as if she didn't trust men
and couldn't look one in the eye. Elle raised
her face and smiled at him. He didn't
resemble Mel Gibson. He wasn't that
pretty. But he was handsome, and he looked so
male ... standing there with his sleeves rolled up
beyond his elbows, his shirt opened at the neck and his
hat in his hand. Julie had told her how he had
worked on the farm, mending the split rail of the
chicken pens, straightening the tines on an old
plow. He was probably trying to keep busy and
stay away from Julie and Cory's father. But he
was a man that believed in the work ethic and he had
earned his place at the supper table. For some
crazy, unexplainable reason, Elle felt very
proud of him.
  He was, quite simply, a man to be admired.
  "Jordan." She said his name in a soft
whisper, though loud enough for him to hear.
  Nodding in respect to Phoebe, he entered her
home. He walked over to the bed and smiled down
at Elle. "You're better." It was a
statement, yet she could detect a note of
gladness.
  "Thanks to you." She looked into his eyes and
said sincerely, "Thank you. I know you didn't
need this detour."
  He shrugged, as if embarrassed. To change the
subject, he indicated the trunk. "What are
you doing?"
  Elle laughed. "Trunk cleaning." She
pointed to the shoes in Julie's lap. "They
don't even fit. Julie tried them on and
they're perfect. I think this blouse would look
lovely on Phoebe, don't you?"
  She held up a white blouse with a bib of
heavy lace for him to see and Jordan, glancing
at his shy hostess, noted, "Why I do believe
the contrast would bring out the blue in Miss
Phoebe's eyes."
  Phoebe Woodson blushed a bright shade of
crimson and hid her face as she peeked
into another pot. But they all heard her giggle.
It was a sound that probably didn't often grace
this house.
  "And," Elle added, "I cannot understand
why we are carting all this to Texas, do you?"
  Going along, Jordan shook his head. "It
isn't as if we won't be going through another town
if you'd want to replace something. I think you're
right, Elizabeth. You should lighten the load. I
was going to talk to you about that very thing."
  She smiled at her conspirator as he pulled
up a chair and sat opposite her and Julie.
"I'm happy that you've recovered so quickly. We
can be on our way tomorrow morning when Kyle
arrives."
  "Kyle?"
  "I instructed Cooky to send him back with a
buckboard from Caldwell. We'll catch up
with the herd in a few days."
  A few days. Alone with him. Why did her
stomach tighten? Surely it was only hunger
...
  A rude, angry voice interrupted her
thoughts. "I caught this little runt feeding corn to that
rat of his." Woodson threw Cory into the
center of the room. Scrambling away from his father,
Cory ran behind his mother's skirts for protection.
"I catch that Noah, I'll skin him and serve
him up for breakfast. Make you eat the tail,
too."
  The man laughed at his own joke, though
Jordan reached out his hand to restrain Elle from
rising in the child's defense. Jordan seemed
to silently talk to her, telling her that they shouldn't
interfere in this family. She knew he was right,
yet it galled her to sit and listen to the ugly
chuckles of the man when only moments ago the
house had been filled with the soft, feminine
giggles of his wife. All he did was walk
into the room and everyone became silent and
depressed.
  This, Elle decided, was surely a living
hell.
  "Supper ready, woman?"
  Phoebe didn't answer. She moved like a
servant as she placed the steaming black pot in
front of him. It was some sort of signal to the
rest of the family that they could join him in dinner, for
Julie rose and pulled her chair back to the
small table that she and Elle had set with
unmatched, cracked plates. The children sat on
up-ended packing crates and poor Cory's chin
barely reached the edge of the table. Everyone ate in
silence, attacking their food. Polite
conversation was not welcome. They treated eating,
even the rare meal of beef, as any other task--
done without joy.
  Elle glanced at Jordan more than once
during dinner, yet kept her silence. As her own
act of defiance, she grinned at Julie and
winked at Cory when his carrot slipped off his
fork. Her insubordination did not go unnoticed for
at the end of the meal, Joseph Woodson broke
the heavy silence by his simple observation.
  "I would think a lady would come to my table
properly dressed."
  Jordan slammed down his fork. "That's
uncalled for. My wife has been ill."
  "She has fully recovered, if her
appetite is any indication. She eats enough for a
man."
  Elle could feel the rage building up inside
of her as she closed the front of her robe more
tightly. In her fury, she no longer saw this
crude farmer of the nineteenth century. She
reacted as if he had been her father. Slowly,
she stood up and very calmly replaced her fork on
the wooden table. As if in slow motion she lifted
her chin and stared back into his hateful eyes.
  "Who the hell do you think you are--"
  "Elizabeth! Let's go outside--"
  She waved Jordan off. "Listen to me, you
pathetic excuse for a man, maybe you can bully
your family but don't you dare open your mouth
to me. You have no power over me, and I'm not
afraid of you. Jordan McCabe put the
food on this table, not you."
  "Elizabeth, please!" Jordan had come up
next to her and taken her arm.
  "I'm not afraid of him," Elle stated, not
yet breaking the man's odious stare. His eyes were
bulging; his face fused with purple. But she
wasn't through with him. "He gets off on bullying
people because he's a failure as a man--"
  "That's enough!" Jordan pulled her away from
the table and Elle blinked, as if coming out of a
spell. Julie was crying and Cory was clinging
to his mother.
  "Get that woman out of my house," Woodson
screamed, spitting food onto the planked table.
"Get her off my land!"
  Jordan pulled her to the door.
  "Joseph," Phoebe pleaded, "They've
brought the Hereford, and Mr. McCabe
already paid you the five dollars--"
  With lightning speed, the man backhanded her across
the face. Julie shrieked in horror as her mother
fell off her chair and onto the dirt floor.
The young girl hurried to help her mother up, while
Cory raced across the room and threw himself against his
father.
  "Stop it! Don't you hit her again!" His tiny
fists pounded at his father's stomach in a feeble
attempt to inflict pain. Woodson shoved the child
off to one side to deal with the cowboy who was reaching for
his shirt collar.
  "Someone should take you outside and beat the living
hell out of you," Jordan growled into his face.
"I think you've had it coming for a long time." His
breath came in short angry spurts. "Lets
not subject this family to any more violence. Step
outside, like a man."
  He released Woodson's shirt as if it were
contaminated and turned toward the door.
  Elle would later remember it happening as if
it were a movie. As soon as Jordan turned,
Woodson picked up the knife he had used
to carve the roast. She saw him raise it above his
head, as if to gain momentum before plunging it
into Jordan's back. She lurched forward toward
Jordan, wanting to protect him, to warn him.
Then Phoebe came up out of nowhere. She just
appeared like an avenging, bloodied angel. She
held the Winchester rifle in her hand and screamed
out her husband's name as she used the weapon like a
bat to knock him off balance.
  Woodson fell to one side, hitting his head
on the corner of a crate that was nailed into the dirt
wall. He stood for just a moment, a surprised
look on his face, before his eyes rolled back in
his head and his legs gave out. The children screamed again
as he went down in a crumpled mass.
  The adults all stood perfectly still for a few
seconds, each gasping for breath, for a moment of
sanity. And then Jordan moved. He walked
past Cory and Julie who huddled together against the
wall. Carefully, he stepped over their father and
bent down to check. No one spoke as Jordan
turned him over. The dirt room was filled with a
silence, still and awful, as Jordan's fingers felt
for a pulse.
  Finally, after agonizing minutes, Jordan
McCabe looked up to Phoebe and said, "I'm
sorry."
  The meaning was clear. Phoebe's eyes were
wide with fear as she backed out of the room.
Jordan rose and reached out to her for the gun. "It
was an accident, Miss Phoebe. We all
saw what happened. Miss Phoebe!"
  The woman looked crazed, her eyes filled
with panic, then she turned and ran past Elle out
into the night, into the field where she had worked so hard
alongside her husband.
  Elle turned back to the children and forced her legs
to move. She wouldn't think about the body in the
corner. She couldn't! None of this can really be
happening, she kept telling herself--none of it. As
if sleep-walking, Elle lifted the edge of her
robe and wrapped it around the two sobbing children.
"Come with me," she whispered down to them. "Let's
go out for a few minutes. Please ..." She had
to get them away. She had to get herself away from that
horrible sight across from her.
  She was urging them up, begging them to come with her,
when the gunshot broke through the night like the
terrifying crack of a whip.
  Jolted by the sound, Cory straightened in her
arms. But it was Julie who threw back her
head, screaming out the name in an anguished wail.
  "Momma!"

              Chapter 7

  Elle and Jordan stared at each other in
disbelief for only a second before he grabbed the
oil lamp off the table and ran outside.
  Barely able to stay upright, Elle closed her
eyes and repeatedly whispered to herself, "This isn't
happening. None of this can be happening ..."
  Cory moaned in her arms and she looked down
into his small frightened face. "C'mon," she
whispered, "let's wait outside, all right?"
They had to get away from the nightmare. She kept
swallowing down the panic that threatened to surface.
What she wanted to do was run away. Anywhere.
Back to sanity. If she could just get them out of
here ... gathering up Cory, she led Julie out
of the sod house.
  They stood for just a moment, watching the distant
light in the field. Elle would have felt better
if it were moving, if Jordan were calling out to her
for help, but everything was so still. ...
  "Is there somewhere where we can go for a little while?"
she calmly questioned Julie, fighting
desperately for control.
  The girl was in shock, yet somehow managed
to point into the night.
  "What is it?" Elle asked, feeling
Cory's breath on her neck as he pressed his
face against it. His tiny fingers clung to her
shoulders as she carried him.
  "'Fraidy Hole." Julie's voice was
less than a whisper. It was only the wind that
carried it.
  A fitting name. Through the mental chaos taking
place inside of her, Elle was able to remember
the cyclone cellar that Julie had pointed out
earlier when she'd used the outhouse. At the time
Elle had thought it was no more than a mound of
grass over a hole in the ground. Now it seemed
like a blessed refuge from the horror that was taking
place around them.
  Julie reached down and exposed the entry. In
the moonlight Elle was able to see the dark hole
that lay beyond the rough wooden door. The space
didn't look welcoming and she was about to suggest that
they wait in front of it when the wind picked up,
swirling the dry grass around their legs. She
glanced down to Julie. The young girl was looking
up to her for guidance.
  "Maybe we can go in?" Elle wanted
to settle the children before searching for Jordan.
  "Its dark and cold." Julie sounded frightened.
  "That's okay. We'll leave the door open and
sit on the steps. All right?" She shifted the child
in her arms. "Is that all right with you, Cory?"
The boy only clung more tightly. He didn't
answer.
  Elle led the way. The steps were dug out of
dirt. Everything on this farm came out of the earth.
Trying not to think, she waited until Julie
sat on the first step before lowering herself and Cory
onto the second. The distinct scent of onions
carried up to her. It was cold, or maybe they were
all just in shock. Letting Cory cuddle into her
chest, she reached out and placed her hand on
Julie's shoulder as they stared out into the wheat
field.
  The light hadn't moved.
  "You think Momma's dead?"
  Elle wasn't prepared for the girl's question.
She should have been, but she wasn't. "I don't
know, sweetie. Maybe the gun just went off
by accident. Maybe--"
  "Then why doesn't Captain McCabe come
back?" she interrupted in a dull voice.
"Why doesn't he call out for help?"
  Elle was wondering the same thing herself.
  "Maybe we should go to him. I can see the
light."
  Sitting behind the girl, Elle shook her head,
though Julie couldn't see her. "I don't think
so. Look! He must be coming back." They watched
in silence as the light moved out of the field. She
didn't need to say anything to Julie. Both of
them waited and watched, knowing only moments would
pass before they had their answer. When they could see
the light come closer to the house, Elle called
out.
  "Jordan! Over here!"
  Dear God.
  He was alone.
  They made room for him in the cellar. He
brought the lamp, illuminating the small shelter.
It was no more than seven feet square. Lining its
cold dirt walls were bins of potatoes,
carrots and onions. She and Julie stood
together, Julie's thin arm grabbing at Elle's
waist.
  Jordan brushed his hair back from his forehead
and slowly let out his breath. They could all hear the
hiss of the oil lamp as they waited for him
to speak.
  Everyone knew.
  No one wanted it said.
  "Julie, honey, your Momma's had a
terrible accident--"
  "Nooo ..." She turned into Elle's
shoulder and cried. Trying to hold Cory and the
girl, Elle looked over Julie's blond
curls to Jordan.
  He shook his head, indicating that Phoebe
Woodson, that fragile, overworked woman, no
longer existed. How could this have happened? How ...
  Then it hit her. It was as if someone had
slapped her in the face. She had done this. It was
all her fault for arguing with the man. If she
hadn't, maybe Phoebe's husband would be
alive, maybe Cory and Julie's mother wouldn't
be out in a wheat field ... dead.
  With that revelation came a wave of dizziness so
strong that she could barely stand. Her legs buckled
and Jordan reached over to steady her as she sat
down on a crate. Still hiding his face,
Cory whimpered while listening to his sister's
sobs.
  "Will you be all right?" Jordan asked when the
three of them were settled on the ground.
  Elle couldn't speak. Her culpability
rushed up and washed over her, almost choking her with
guilt. She condemned herself for her impatience and
lack of control. That anger had caused the death of
two people, and irreversibly changed the lives of
these children.
  "I'll get blankets and a lamp. Maybe
you should all stay out here for a little bit longer,"
Jordan suggested in a soft voice. "I'll
bring back your Momma, Julie, and then--"
  "I don't want to see her!" the girl
nearly screamed, causing Elle to swallow down
her own tears as she hugged the teenager closer.
  "If she's dead, then just bury her!" Julie
sobbed out. "Bury them both! I don't want
to see them--I don't--"
  "Shh ..." Elle kissed the top of the young
girl's head, letting her own tears finally come.
"You don't have to. You don't have to do anything you
don't want to. It's all right, isn't it,
Jordan?" She could barely speak for the tightness
in her throat and her own need to scream out at the
injustice.
  "Sure it is," Jordan quickly answered.
He reached across and touched Julie's shoulder,
rubbing his hand back and forth in a show of comfort.
Leaning closer to her, he whispered into her ear.
"Honey, I'm going to take care of everything for
you. Don't you worry. Me and Miss
Elizabeth aren't going to let anything else
happen to either you or your brother. You stay here,
Julie. I promise you, I'll take care of
everything."
  Grateful for his presence, Elle watched him
leave through the haze of her tears. In her entire
life, she had never met a man who so easily
assumed the cloak of responsibility. She
wanted to tell him, to open her mouth and speak,
yet her guilt held her back. She was just
waiting ... waiting for him to point the finger of
blame, and she wouldn't be able to deny it. How could
she have thought so little of him, when everything he had done
since they'd come to the farm had been done for others?
Now he was faced with this last gruesome task ...
  She was grateful to him for the children who huddled against
her for comfort. She was also indebted to him,
for in truth she was a coward.
  If any of this were real then she was as childish as
Julie, for she didn't want to see the
Woodsons. She was afraid because they were dead,
because only a short time ago they had been eating and
yelling and fighting. And now because of her they would never
argue again. She wanted it all to go away. She
wanted to wake up in Bucks County,
Pennsylvania--away from this. She could have endured
the trail drive back to Texas if that was how
she was supposed to follow this nightmare. But
this--why wasn't she waking up?
  Was this now her reality?
  "What's going to happen to us?" Julie mumbled
through her tears.
  Elle shook her head. "Don't think about it.
Not now." Cory had quieted down. His breathing
was steady, yet his hands did not release their grip
on her shoulders. She pressed her own palms
to his back, feeling his lungs expand with each
tiny breath. Suddenly a wave of
protectiveness, strong and powerful, washed over
her. These two helpless human beings were now in her
care and looking to her for guidance. All those years
when she had told herself that she never cared whether she
became a mother slid away. In that small dirt
room under the ground, in a century that she should never
have been in, Elle once more heard the voice of the
doctor telling her that she could never have children. She
had heard his regret, his long explanation of
tests. She remembered feeling her own resolve
settle in, closing off her heart to protect
it.
  And now that protection seemed selfish.
  Now there were others more important.
  Shutting her eyes, Elizabeth Mackenzie
tightened her hold on the children, vowing not to let any
more harm come their way.

  They were wrapped in blankets to protect them
from the chill. She had no idea what time it was.
She couldn't sleep. Her body was cramped from
sitting against the dirt wall, yet she was afraid
to move, to awaken the children. They had both fallen
asleep hours ago. Poor Cory still twitched
occasionally and Julie moaned, her head against
Elle's breast. Yet they were asleep, and
hopefully were graced with oblivion. Lightly
caressing the hair at Julie's temple,
Elle glanced up to Jordan.
  "What will we do?" she whispered. "What will
become of them?"
  Laboring through the night to bury their parents,
Jordan gazed down to the children. He had come back
into the storm cellar ten minutes ago, exhausted,
and now a look of deep sorrow seemed etched on
his face. "We'll take them into Caldwell in
the morning. Even if Kyle doesn't come,
we'll use Woodson's wagon."
  She blinked, afraid of his next words.
  "First we have to talk to Julie. She would know
about relatives. They have to have a family Bible with
names." He shook his head before leaning it back
against the dirt wall. "I don't know,
Elizabeth ..." His breath left his body in a
weary, frustrated rush.
  "You blame me, don't you?"
  He straightened. His face and hands had been
washed, yet the rest of him showed the hours of digging
into the Kansas earth. "Why would I blame you?"
  She swallowed down fresh tears, trying so
hard not to let them surface. "Because I fought with the
man. I made you intervene. You ... you told
me not to ... I couldn't help it. I wish
to God I could take it all back--"
  "Don't wake the children," he interrupted.
"And, no, it wasn't your fault." Sitting on
the dirt ground, with one leg outstretched and the other
bent in front of him, Jordan rested his arm on
his knee and rubbed his fingers over his eyes.
"Joseph Woodson was a walking bomb. I
don't know what his story was, or how he came
to be out here, but I think he lost something of himself
to this land. He didn't pick an easy life, and
his poor wife paid the price." Staring out into the
night, he shook his head. "Miss Phoebe
wasn't herself when she ran into that field. Living
out here in this loneliness--she was probably just
holding on with a thread when we came along."
Visibly weary, he once more leaned his head
back and closed his eyes. "Stop blaming yourself,
Elizabeth. It was bound to happen. If not tonight,
then sometime when there wasn't anyone to protect the
children."
  His voice was thick with sleep, and she watched
as his head nodded closer to his shoulder. "Don't
try and figure out life," he muttered, as if
an afterthought. "Just try and get through it."
  Within minutes the tension left the muscles in his
face. He relaxed in a deep sleep
and she didn't have the heart to disturb any of them,
especially the children who had finally found relief in
the peace that comes with total exhaustion.
  Everyone was at peace, even Joseph and
Phoebe Woodson.
  Everyone but Elle Mackenzie.
  Her heart was troubled and she felt as if a
heavy rock had been placed upon her chest.
Looking out into the night, she muttered, "Why am
I here?" And then in a stronger voice, "I said,
why am I here?"
  Silence.
  Her eyes narrowed with anger. "Look," she
whispered tightly, "I haven't bothered you in
over ten years. Now what do you want from me?"
  Glancing down to the children in her arms and not wanting
to awaken anyone, Elle continued the conversation in
her head. I don't even know if you exist
anymore. You certainly never made your presence
known before ... when I really needed you, when I was
all alone with no one to protect me. Like these
kids. So you'd better be listening now, because I
haven't made a pest of myself. And the way I'm
feeling ... you owe me.
  She took a deep breath, closed her eyes,
and continued. Okay. If I haven't lost my
mind, or died, or something, well, then, I've
walked out of the last decade of the twentieth
century and into 1876. In which case, you must have a
reason. Is it these children? Was I brought here for
them? Because you're sorry for making me childless
... and this is supposed to make up for it?
  Her breath left her body in a rush of
anger. Well, it doesn't! Do you hear me?
I did everything right! I tried to be a good
person, even when you saddled me with parents who
hated each other and took it out on me. I begged
you to help me then and you ignored me. Now, I'm
telling you I need some sign, some reason for me
being here. She breathed heavily and gathered her
courage, knowing she was arguing, plotting with God.
But it didn't matter. Not anymore. What more
could be done to her? She had to reason this out in her
mind, make some sense of it. Having been denied
it during her childhood, structure was very
important to Elle. And that's what she needed
now--an order to things. She couldn't comprehend the
reasoning behind the tragedy that had taken place on
this farm tonight. Two people had died. Died! This
wasn't a movie, or something out of a
storybook. This was happening, and there had to be a
reason.
  Why did you allow that? If it's to rescue
these children, then all right. I'll find a better
home for them. I'll make a deal with you. If
I promise to find the best place for the children, then
do you promise to take me back to the twentieth
century?
  Silence.
  Elle waited, not too patiently, and then she
opened her eyes to look back out into the night.
Nothing was happening. There was no shooting star, no
howl of a coyote nor hoot of owl. There was
nothing but the wind to break the silence of the night.
Maybe that's how God works, she reasoned.
Quietly. He'd certainly been quiet for
most of her life. Well, there wasn't any
flash of lightning, nor crash of thunder to indicate
supreme displeasure. She waited a few
moments ... just to give him time. Finally, she
felt it settled in her mind.
  Okay, then. We have an agreement. I
find the right home for these kids and you get me
back to the twentieth century. Hey, I can even
understand it now. Guess it's no different than
any other business deal. We both give and
take until we come to a common ground. You get
what you want, and so do I. We're both
happy.
  She took a deep breath and slowly exhaled
as she once more closed her eyes. A smile
appeared at her lips. Too bad she couldn't
tell anyone about this one. The guys in the office
would drool. Striking a bargain with the supreme being
didn't come along very often.
  And winning ... Hey, how much trouble could it be
to find a home for these children? They were great kids!
  Knowing she had a plan, and a reason for the
insanity in her life, Elle Mackenzie joined
the others by closing her eyes.
  She'd finally found her peace.

              Chapter 8

  Caldwell, Kansas loomed on the
horizon like a town that had magically appeared out
of nowhere. They had been driving for more than an
hour over the creek-veined prairie when suddenly
the dark shapes of buildings emerged. Excited,
Elle sat up straight and pointed out the
sight to Cory.
  "Look, that must be it!" she said in an eager
voice. Dear God, a town! People! She couldn't
wait. Surely somewhere in this place was a home
for Julie and Cory, and a way out of her own
nightmare.
  Cory barely glanced up. His shoulders were
slumped; his chin rested on his chest. He was in
shock, along with his sister. Elle had tried to be
strong for both of them when they had left the farm this
morning. Just as they had been saying prayers over
the new graves of Phoebe and Joseph
Woodson, Kyle arrived with a wagon. Elle
remembered being relieved to see the young cowboy, for
they could finally leave that place of horror. She
had helped Julie pack her and Cory's few
belongings. There was a family Bible, yet no
names were inscribed outside of Phoebe's.
Jordan had gently questioned Julie about
relatives and the child could only provide the name of
her maternal grandmother. Unfortunately, the
woman had died last year and Julie couldn't
even remember the town where she had lived.
Jordan had shrugged, whispering to Elle that they
would surely have some information on the family in
Caldwell.
  Elle had looked at Julie and Cory,
standing together, tightly holding hands. They had
appeared so frightened and afraid of the unknown. These
children struck a chord inside of Elle, for she could
easily remember feeling the same way as a young
girl. My God ... how adults can make the
innocent pay for their mistakes! And now these two
guiltless children had been placed in her charge. Their
safety and well-being were up to her. She felt a
twinge of remorse for her pact with God, but
didn't dwell on it.
  She had to help these children. In one single day they
had worked their way into her heart. When she had first
awakened on the farm Cory Woodson had been
the one to make her smile. Even out on the lonely
Kansas plains, with no one to play with except
his sister and a tiny mouse, Cory's zest for life
hadn't been extinguished. No--it had taken
something more horrible, more shocking to silence the boy.
Not knowing what else to do, Elle had gathered
Cory into her arms and held him close during the
long ride into town. She tried not to mind that he
held onto Noah, petting the mouse a few
times before putting it back into his
jacket pocket. How well she knew that
everybody needed something to get through the night, and
even if she did find the rodent thoroughly
disgusting, she vowed to keep her opinions to herself.
The poor child hadn't uttered a single word since
last night and Elle mentally promised that somehow
she would find him a home far better than the one
he had left.
  "They're going to make fun of us," Julie
muttered as the two wagons slowly approached the
town.
  "No, they aren't," Elle answered softly.
"Why would anyone make fun of you?" She glanced
behind her to the wagon Jordan was driving. He and
Kyle had deposited the children's belongings in it and
tethered the Woodsons' horse to the back. They
had set out feed for the chickens and opened the flimsy
gate, for it was silently acknowledged that no one
would be coming back to the farm. Perhaps not ever.
  "When they find out what Momma did ..."
  Cory moaned. His first sound.
  Holding the boy closer, Elle hurried
to stop Julie. "What happened was an accident.
No one is going to place any blame. It was
tragic, but--"
  "They'll all say Momma went crazy,
that's what. I don't want to go ...." Julie
started to sob and Cory's moans turned
into pathetic whimpers, cries that tore at
Elle's heart.
  Gathering them both into her arms, she noticed how
uncomfortable Kyle looked as he drove their
wagon. She took a deep breath and lowered her
head down between the two children's. "Look, guys,"
she whispered, "we have to report the accident.
Jordan's going to take care of everything, but if
you don't want to talk to anyone, I promise
that you don't have to, okay?"
  Julie sniffled and Cory wiped at his cheek
with the back of his hand. Elle tried to smile.
"Hey, you don't think I'm going to dump you
somewhere, just to get rid of you, do you?" She didn't
wait for an answer. "No way. We're going
to find the best place, and we'll all know when
it's right. Okay?"
  All three looked at each other for a few
seconds. Swallowing down tears, Julie
glanced at her younger brother, made a decision,
and nodded. "You--you're not just going to leave us?"
She hiccupped and wiped at her nose,
trying not to let Kyle see her embarrassment.
  Elle shook her head and smiled at the
teenager. "No, Julie. I told you. Not
until we all know it's right."
  Julie deeply inhaled, as if the act brought
her sudden strength. While gazing out toward the
approaching town, she raised her chin and Elle
saw the young girl's shoulders tighten as a
precaution. All the defenses were up and in
position.
  What kind of place was Caldwell to cause
such a reaction in someone so young?
  They had to have passed over ten bars while making
their way up the main street to the sheriff's
office. In addition to the smaller establishments,
Elle took notice of such places as "The
Lone Star," the "Alamo Gambling Hall,"
"Moreland House," a hotel that proclaimed
itself Home of the Cowboy. Women that could only
be prostitutes sat on wide windowsills and
surveyed the busy roadway with bored
expressions. Occasionally, a very proper-looking
woman stopped walking on the sidewalk to stare
at their odd procession through the main street. These
women were in direct contrast to those sitting by the
windows. Serviceable dark dresses that swept the
wooden walk clothed their frames, while
small, plain bonnets sat atop heads
despite the heat of the morning.
  Filled with an odd fascination, Elle was
sorry when their small caravan stopped in front
of the law office. She hadn't really paid attention
when they had left Wichita. Then she had been
convinced that it was all a dream, a hallucination.
Now she knew differently.
  Dear God ...
  "I'm scared," Julie whispered as she
clutched the worn plaid shawl more tightly around
her shoulders.
  "You'll do all right." Elle gave her arm a
squeeze as Jordan came up to the wagon and
reached for Cory. Holding the boy on his hip,
he held out his hand to her.
  It seemed the most natural thing in the world
to take it.
  Natural and dangerous.
  It was only moments, mere seconds of skin
touching skin, yet something happened--a magnetic
current of recognition ran between them. It was gone
so quickly that Elle, suddenly confused, was
left to believe that she had only imagined it, and
she didn't really have time to consider the
significance for Julie was tugging at her arm.
  "I'm scared, Miss Elizabeth. My
Momma--"
  "Honey, no one can hurt your Momma,"
Jordan broke in gently. "She's finally at
peace."
  Elle looked at Jordan, so strong, so
sure in his words. He spoke with so much conviction
that even she believed him. He smiled that slow,
almost warm smile of his and motioned for them to precede
him into the sheriff's office, and Elle did it.
Just as if she hadn't ever questioned a man's control.
Here, in this time, Jordan McCabe was the
authority and she would keep her mouth closed and
let him lead the way. She didn't even bother
to think what an interesting reversal that would make.
  The law office was small, no more than the
size of a good walk-in closet. The jail part,
two tiny cells separated by rusted iron bars,
was off to one side. The five of them stood before the
sheriff's desk--Jordan still holding Cory,
Elle with an arm around Julie's shoulders, and
Kyle, embarrassed and casting sidelong glances
at all of them.
  "What kinda accident you talkin' about?" the
tall man asked while shifting his considerable
weight in his chair.
  Jordan cleared his throat and looked at
Elle and Julie for just a moment before continuing.
"Something went wrong with the gun and it misfired.
Never saw anything like it before. Both of them
killed."
  The red-haired man reached over to a broom and
broke off a length of straw. Using the thin end,
he proceeded to pick at his teeth. Elle
suppressed a shudder as she watched the sheriff
dig the reed into the graying cavity on his front
tooth.
  "You the Woodson girl?" he asked
Julie.
  She nodded and leaned closer to Elle.
  "You see this? You seen your Momma and
Daddy?"
  Julie didn't answer for a moment, as if
considering the lie. Deciding the sin was worth taking
on, she again nodded her affirmation.
  "I need you to talk, girl."
  Elle felt Julie swallow and
catch her breath before muttering, "Yes ... just like
Captain McCabe says. Something ... something
went wrong with the gun. That's all ..."
  Sheriff Nathan Fuller scratched at his
belly, like a lazy dog on a hot afternoon. He
seemed to be digesting the story that was presented
to him. After a considerably painful silence, the
man sucked at the now empty cavity, let out his
breath in a noisy rush and stood up.
  "You say you buried them?"
  Jordan nodded.
  "Anything alive left out there I should worry
about?"
  Shaking his head, Jordan said, "Just some
chickens. We brought the only horse with us."
  The sheriff's interest was aroused. "A horse?
What do you plan to do with it?"
  "I'll sell it, of course. The children will need
something to start their new life."
  Reluctantly, the large man nodded. "And
what about them?" he asked, as if Julie and
Cory weren't even in the room.
  Silent until then, Elle lifted her chin and
spoke up. "I'm going to find a place for the
children. Perhaps you might tell me where I can begin."
  As if just noticing her, the sheriff eyed Elle
with a new regard. "And you are?" He tried
to smile, and attempted to suck in his ample
belly, which only served as a pathetic reminder that
he was well past his prime.
  "Elizabeth ..." Elle stumbled over a
last name and Jordan stepped in to rescue her.
  "Elizabeth McCabe. My wife." He
said the name with authority, refusing to look at
Elle.
  The sheriff's attitude immediately changed. A
wife was respected property. Almost as much as a
horse. He cleared his throat. "Well, then,
Miz McCabe, I'd have to steer you to the
Messenger of God Church. Reckon the
Reverend Cates and his missus would be of help
there."
  "Then we're free to go now?" Elle asked,
anxious to get out of the small room and back into the
fresh air.
  The sheriff drew in a deep breath that filled
his belly. He let it out slowly, staring at each
one of them in turn. Elle could feel the others
holding their breaths along with her. So much depended
on whether this man wanted to challenge
them.
  Finally, he spoke.
  "Well, then, as long as the girl here agrees
with your story, I'd say that's the end of it.
Tragic, is what it is. Them sodbusters
woulda' rotted out there if you people didn't come by.
Lucky for these kids you did."
  Elle glanced at Jordan and although he tried
to hide it, she could read the relief in his
expression. It was an accident. Everyone in
Caldwell would believe that it was a terrible
tragedy and the two children would be safe from ugly
rumors.
  She was right to trust Jordan. Trust--a
totally new emotion where men were concerned and, as they
left the sheriff's office, Elle looked at this
rough cowboy in a completely new light.
Maybe he wasn't as flawed as the other men that
had entered her life. Perhaps this one would change her
long-held belief that most men were threatened by a
woman of equal intelligence and power.
  Once more out on the street, Jordan pointed
toward the opposite end of town. "I think the
church is down that way. I have to stop at the
telegraph office and see if Traver left
any messages." He placed Cory on the
ground and absently tousled his blond curls.
"Why don't I meet you in, say, a half
hour? That way I can stop at the land office and
make sure the Woodsons' farm is properly
registered to Julie and Cory now."
  She smiled at him. A genuine smile. He
was thinking of everything. It was hard to believe that
less than twelve hours before they had all been
in the midst of such horror. Now the sun was shining
and Elle could feel herself grow warm--an
embarrassing Barbie doll glow of admiration for
this remarkable male. "That would be fine," she heard
herself saying, as if everything that came out of his mouth
was agreeable to her. And what a mouth! A now
heavy beard sexily wrapped around his jaw and
cheeks, making his blue eyes look even lighter
by contrast. Suddenly robbed of reasoning, she began
to picture his mouth on hers, his arms wrapped
tightly around her waist, pulling her closer,
deeper into the hard contours of his body.
  She shook her head to wipe out the ridiculous
thoughts, just as he tipped his hat and smiled before
turning away. Elle took a deep breath as
she watched him walk down the street.
She imagined the straight muscled back under the
familiar leather coat ... his hips, his legs
...
  Dear God, she was becoming as simple-minded
as any air-headed bimbo in spandex. She
mentally shuddered at the comparison and tried to gather
her senses while leading the children in the opposite
direction. Yet, her traitorous mind told
her to take just one more look, one more peek.
  And she did--in an evasive, sly way.
  Her heart reacted to the sight of him and it
startled her. When had she changed her mind? Was it
when he had first brought her to Woodson's farm
instead of staying with his precious herd? The way he
had tried to brighten Phoebe's dreary life with his
gentle and innocent flirtation? Or was it the way
he had taken charge and spared her and the children any more
horror last night?
  She didn't know when it had happened, but sometime
in the last twenty-four hours Jordan Dillon
McCabe had become an honest-to-God hero
in her eyes.
  The discovery was amazing.
  "I won't go to any church orphanage. You
promised."
  Elle brought her attention back to the children.
Julie was holding Cory's other hand and her
pretty young face held a look of terror.
  "I told you we would make this decision together.
But we have to do the right thing here. The sheriff said we
should talk to this Reverend person. He can help us,
Julie." Elle tried to smile at the
teenager. "I don't know anyone in this town. Not
even the state." Not even this century, she
mentally added. "Face it, honey. We need some
advice."
  They walked toward the church with an uneasy
silence, each filled with their own thoughts.
Caldwell had its share of merchants, bankers
and grocers, and even though their minds were occupied
Elle and the children couldn't help but notice the
fancy saddles in the window of one shop. The
three stopped for just a moment to admire the
workmanship before moving on. Another store
displayed high shiny boots tipped in silver and
ornate Spanish-looking belts that had to be
too heavy to wear. Each establishment--from the
barber to the brewer, the laundress to the lawyer--
offered something for the cowboy. One store boasted that
everything a person might want could be
found behind its doors--from a five-hundred-dollar
diamond to a pint of salt.
  Even though they were delaying the outcome, all
too soon Elle, Julie and Cory found
themselves in front of a small building with a large
black and white sign.
  Messenger of God Church ...
  It looked very much like the other stores, except
for the large cross someone had painted on the door.
  Elle took a deep breath and squeezed
Cory's tight fist. "Well. Here we are.
It looks ... proper." Privately, Elle
thought the place appeared far too somber and
forbidding, but then she wasn't exactly a
church-going person so she couldn't judge.
  She moved the children forward and knocked softly before
opening the door.
  The hair at the base of her skull tingled when
the heavy wooden door creaked on its rusted
hinges. They crossed over into a dark room,
cold for a summer morning. She felt Julie
shiver next to her and pulled Cory closer to her
side.
  "What're you doing here, girl?"
  All three jumped at the sudden harsh question.
Elle giggled nervously as she sighted the small
man who had entered the room from a side door.
  It had been some time since anyone had called
her "girl," yet she let it pass when she
realized the expression was common for this time. Instead
of her usual sharp response, Elle forced a
smile.
  "How do you do?" she said as pleasantly as
possible. "My name is Elizabeth ...
Elizabeth Mackenzie." She decided not
to lie in this house of the Lord. "And this," she moved
the children forward, "is Julie and Cory
Woodson."
  She waited for some greeting, some sign at
least of manners if nothing else. The man stood
before them and stared. Elle sensed a subtle
hostility emanating from him and she instinctively
squared her shoulders as she stared back.
  He was small in stature, yet he made up
for that by the strange gleam in his eyes. In a more
friendly man it might have been perceived as
intelligence. Now it was frightening, almost scary.
He looked like someone she couldn't place, someone
spooky ... all that wild hair, as if he'd
just awakened ...
  "I asked you a question. State your business."
  His voice held the distinct note of
impatience, yet she refused to give in to her
need for a response. She had promised to find a
place for the children and she wouldn't blow it because of her
temper. "We're here to seek your advice," she
said in an even voice. "You see, their parents were
... were killed last night, and the children will need a good
home. The sheriff said you would be able to help us--"
  "He did, did he?"
  "Well, yes, he did." Why was the man
frowning? "These children need help."
  "This isn't a charity. We can't take every
stray--"
  All Elle's good intentions were blown away
with the man's last words. "They aren't strays,"
she interrupted. "I thought this was a church."
  "And it is, Miss Mackenzie. We just can't
afford to shelter every single unfortunate that comes
in." He walked down the center aisle that was
flanked by rough wooden benches.
  Elle couldn't fathom how anyone could find
peace in such a place and she shivered as the
Reverend Cates approached them. He stopped
less than a foot away and looked more closely
at the children. Elle could see that he barely took
notice of Cory, but Julie seemed to hold a
particular interest for him. Warning bells rang
inside her brain and she pulled Julie beside her.
  "Can't use no boy, but this one might help
Mrs. Cates with her duties." The man
didn't even bother to hide the leering smirk, or
the zealous fire in his eyes. "Don't I know
you, girl? Didn't your people have that place out past
Blutt Creek?"
  Nodding, Julie looked ready to cry.
  "How old are you?"
  "Fifteen," Elle answered. "Look, the
children can't be separated. Isn't there someone
else?" Even as she asked the question, Elle knew
she wouldn't leave Julie and Cory with this man,
for it finally came to her why Reverend Cates
reminded her of someone. He bore a strong
chilling resemblance to her father.
  Gathering her courage, Elle turned the children
around behind her and faced the man alone. "Thanks,
anyway, for your help," she said in a calm
voice as she pushed Julie and Cory down the
aisle. The hair on the back of her arms was
standing straight up as she heard the man
following them.
  "Where you going?" he demanded. "I said I'll
take the girl off your hands, didn't I?"
  "Well, thank you, but I said they stay together and
you've made it clear that you don't have a place for
Cory. We'll find someplace else." Dear
God, she prayed, get us out of here!
  "Nobody else is going to take her in and
give her the right training she needs to become a
proper, God-fearing Christian woman. Are you
prepared to take on that responsibility?"
  Something snapped inside of Elle and she pushed
the children out the front door before whirling back on the
preacher. "You listen to me, you hypocrite. How
dare you even insinuate that your interests have anything
to do with religion. You're no different than any
other man out there," and she indicated the street with
her head. "You're all ruled by your crotch, so
don't pretend that your charity springs from anywhere
else. You want to make Julie into a proper,
God-fearing Christian woman?" Elle pointed
to her chest. "I made a promise to save her
from assholes like you--"
  "How dare you?" Cates demanded, his face
bright red with indignation. "May God strike you for
your insolence, your foul mouth ..."
  Elle laughed, secure in her position.
"Hey, I got the Big Guy on my side in
this. See, we've got a deal going. I don't
leave the kids with cretins, like you, and he takes
me back to my own time."
  Reverend Jack Cates stared at the woman
across from him. Four years ago he had given up
running with the Randall gang and settled down in
Caldwell when a shot of lightning knocked him
off his horse. It was just like Saul in the Bible,
he told Mona, and convinced her that God had
sent him a message to preach The Word. Well,
he hated the preaching and he hated the poverty, and
he especially hated the nearly celibate life
with only the questionable pleasures of his wife. So
he'd strayed, more than a few times. Maybe some
of the things he'd done hadn't been right for a man of the
Lord.
  And now God had sent him this demon woman.
  "Demon!" he shouted as she walked out into the
street.
  She had three, very well-constructed answers
to that accusation, but she sweetly smiled at the children
and steered them back toward the center of
town. "Let's find Jordan," she said in a
surprisingly calm voice. In actuality, she
was really looking forward to seeing him. He was,
at least, a decent fair man. Quite a rarity in
this time, she reasoned. Smiling, she knew he would
understand her decision to take the children to the next town.
  He was, after all, a lone gentleman among
the rest of these dullards. When she told him of
their visit to the church and her decision, he would
certainly understand, perhaps even applaud, her
integrity.
  It surprised her to realize that his opinion was
important, for it had been a very long time since
any man's opinion mattered.

  He stood in the telegraph office and stared
down at the message that had been forwarded from
Wichita. It made no sense.
  Jordan, please understand. stop Have
changed my mind. stop Turned back in
Topeka. stop I can't live like that. stop
I'm sorry. stop Lost luggage. stop
Will explain everything when I get back
to Georgia. Cynthia Marie Warden.
  Jordan looked up just in time to see
Elizabeth approach the office with the children.
  Elizabeth? Cynthia? What the hell was
going on?
  And suddenly, as he watched the woman lean
down and say something to the children, it all became
clear.
  He pictured her in his mind--in pain, clinging
to the whiskey bottle. She had pushed her hair
back from her eyes and said, "I told Cooky and
Kyle nobody calls me Cynthia. I
prefer Elizabeth. Call me Elizabeth
... everybody does."
  Elizabeth.
  He'd kill her.

              Chapter 9

  "Oh, Jordan, you wouldn't believe that
Reverend person. He was horrible. Why, he--"
She stopped speaking and stared at him. His eyes
fairly blazed his anger and the muscle in his left
cheek tensed as he ground his back teeth together.
"What's wrong? Has something happened to Traver
and the herd?" It was the only thing she could think of that
would bring about such a reaction.
  The words seemed to struggle just to move past his
clenched teeth "Who the hell are you?"
  Elle's eyes opened in shock. "I beg your
pardon?" Surely she couldn't have heard
correctly. She must be still angry over her
encounter with that crazed preacher. "Is something
wrong?" she repeated.
  Without further words, Jordan grabbed her arm
and led her out of the telegraph office. When they were
on the street, he pulled her into an alley beside
the wooden building. Startled by his actions,
Elle finally recovered and jerked her arm away from
his hand. "What do you think you're doing?" she
demanded, her earlier appraisal of him
diminishing.
  He thrust a piece of paper into her hands.
Briefly glancing at the children who stood a few
feet away, Elle looked down to the
telegram. What in the world could he have--
  Suddenly, as the words began to register, her
heart started pounding against her rib cage and her
mouth lost all moisture.
  Damn it ...
  Cynthia. The woman's name annoyed
Elle. She sounded so prim and proper and her
telegram certainly didn't speak well of
her. So she'd turned around and gone home ...
  Elle looked up and said the first thing that came
to mind. "I'm sorry. It's probably for the
best. She doesn't sound like she would have been
happy out here anyway."
  His jaw dropped in astonishment and he grabbed
for the paper, as if she might have harmed it. "I
asked you a question, madam. Who the hell are you?
And what kind of game do you think you're playing?"
  She squared her shoulders at the verbal
attack. "Wait a minute. I told you who
I was, but you didn't want to listen." She
cleared her throat and lifted her chin. "I'm
Elizabeth Mackenzie."
  "Elizabeth Mackenzie?" He said her
last name as if it were a curse.
  "That's right. Now before you start yelling again, let
me remind you that I never claimed to be this
Cynthia person. You and your men just assumed--"
  "What?" He stared at her as if he were
seeing her for the first time. "You mean you let them
assume you were Cynthia? Why? What did you
hope to accomplish? were you so desperate to marry
someone that you deceived everyone in order to gain
a husband?" The color in his face had gone from a
bright red to an ashen gray, and now returned
to crimson.
  "Marry someone? Are you joking? The very last thing
I want is to be married." She couldn't look
at the children who were huddled together off to one side.
How could she possibly explain to any of them?
Pushing back the hair from her eyes, she
swallowed down her frustration and started again.
"Look, Jordan, I can imagine how you
feel. I didn't mean to deceive you. If you will
remember I had just had a tooth pulled and
wasn't exactly making much sense myself. When
Traver and Kyle came up to me I thought ...
I mean I really thought they had said they were taking
me back to Dr. Macdade's office. Of
course, now I know they were saying McCabe--"
  Jordan shook his head. "Wait a minute
... wait a minute. You went with my men because you
thought they were taking you to a doctor's office?"
  Elle nodded. "A dentist. The one who'd
extracted my tooth."
  "And he's in Wichita ... this dentist?"
  "Well, yes. But not exactly the Wichita
you know."
  Jordan balled his hand into a fist. "I
don't know what you mean by that. The Wichita I
know? The only thing I do know is that if you thought
they were taking you back to a dentist, then why did you
travel over one hour in the opposite
direction?"
  Even the children seemed interested in the question and she
didn't have an answer. At least not one that any
of them would understand. Jordan was looking at her as
if he had trapped her and before she knew it, she
blurted out, "Look, I'm from 1991 ...
okay? I thought I was hallucinating."
  No one spoke. Even the sun chose that moment
to hide behind a fat cloud. It was an odd sensation
... total silence.
  Finally, Jordan whispered behind clenched teeth,
"What did you say?"
  She wanted to laugh at his expression, but she
knew it was nerves, for there was nothing funny about this
situation. "I said," she began in a careful low
voice so the children couldn't hear, "I don't belong
in this time. I'm from 1991." She smiled as if
it might take away a little bit of the shock.
  "You're insane. I should have known it when you
came to camp with that paper necklace,
wearing men's trousers and drooling and slobbering--"
  "Hey! Hey!" Now she was equally angry.
"Now just you wait a minute, Mr. Macho
Cowboy. I was not drooling and slobbering--well,
I was, but there was a reason for it. My entire
mouth was numb from Novocaine. That paper
necklace, as you so charmingly call it, was put
there by the dentist. Everybody wears one, everybody
in my time. And as far as the men's trousers ... you
should know they were mine. I have lots of them, and I
wear them whenever I please. You see in my time,
a time of considerable improvement I might add,
women have progressed to where they wear whatever
pleases them, not men."
  He pointed his finger at her. "I was right!
You're a suffragette!"
  Somehow, from his tone of voice, that label was as
condemning as a cheat or an outlaw. "Well,
I'm not, but I'd like to know how to become one if it
has anything to do with encouraging women's rights in this
century. Honest to God, I can't believe
women haven't banded together and risen up against the
lot of you!" Feeling quite righteous, Elle nodded
abruptly, as if to make her point.
  There was no need. By the expression on his
face, it was quite clear that Jordan had understood.
"I'm not going to stand here in the middle of a street
and argue with you about women--"
  "Why not?" she questioned. "Because you know I'm right?
And by the way, this is an alley, not a street."
  She smiled.
  He glared.
  "I will give you enough money to get back
to Wichita," he said in a clipped voice.
"What I should do is turn you in to the sheriff--"
  "Forget the sheriff," she blurted. "You've
already told him I was your wife." Her smile
widened. "Reversing that would take a lot of
explaining and probably make him doubt everything
else you've said. Who knows, he might even think
you had something to do with what happened at the farm. And
you can forget about Wichita," she added. "I have no
reason to go back there, unless of course you can find
the Wichita that I left in 1991. Then I'd
be eternally grateful to leave you to this uncivilized
reign of male macho schlock."
  He was breathing heavily, clutching the
telegram in his fist. "I take it that
expression is an insult?"
  "Oh, most definitely."
  He stared at her and then quickly glanced to the children.
"Exactly what do you intend to do? I assume you
didn't find any help at the church."
  She could tell he was trying to overcome his
anger and she decided not to further antagonize
him. After all, what she was about to propose
wasn't exactly what he was expecting. "I
wouldn't leave a stray cat with the Reverend
Cates, let alone children. Besides, he made it
perfectly clear that he could only take in
Julie," she whispered. "And I'll let you
use your imagination as to what his intentions were.
Anyway, I thought we would just go with you ...
until we reach the next town. You see,
Jordan, I told the children that I wouldn't leave
them until I found the right home. You can understand
that, can't you?"
  He shook his head in disbelief. "Let me
get this straight. You deceived me in the most
despicable manner. I have left my herd, my
men, because of you. I became involved at the
Woodsons', lied to an officer of the law--"
  "You make it sound worse than it is," she
stated, smoothing down the front of Cynthia's
copper-colored skirt. "And, besides, it was your
guys that took me away. Who knows, I might
have gone back. They could have interfered with fate, or
something."
  "It must be something, because I haven't the faintest
idea what you are talking about. You might have gone
back where?"
  "I told you. 1991. That's where I'm from--"
  He looked ready to strangle her. "Don't
say it!" he commanded in a strained voice. "Do not
say that you are from the next century. It is more
than likely, madam, that you have escaped from a
madhouse. And now I have had the misfortune
to cross your path." He shook his head, as if
to brush away the confusing thoughts. "What do you
intend to do with the children? They seem attached to you."
  Glancing up the alley to Julie and Cory,
Elle smiled before turning back to glare at the
tall cowboy in front of her. How could she have
ever thought he was a hero? She mentally shook
herself. Dear God, she had actually thought he was
different.
  She squared her shoulders. "I thought I made
that perfectly clear, Captain McCabe.
We're going with you to the next town. But don't
worry, it's only until I can find
the right home for Cory and Julie."
  Jordan looked back to the children and took a
deep breath. "And then what?"
  She could sense his impending compliance and quickly
added, "Why then I'll go back to my own time, of
course. It's sort of a deal I've got
going."
  The sarcasm was loud and clear. "I'm afraid
to ask with whom."
  "Then don't." She smiled. "You wouldn't
believe me anyway."
  "You're right. I don't think I'd believe
anything that comes out of your mouth. You, madam, are
an impostor, a charlatan and a liar. And a poor
example for the children, I might add."
  Her jaw tightened. "I don't think you have
to add anything. My God, you're so uptight.
I have only those kids' best interests at heart.
All I'm asking is that you let us tag along
until you catch up with the herd or come to the next
town. We'll find a place. I'm sure of
it."
  He seemed to be considering her words and she
couldn't tell by his expression what he was going
to do. What she didn't expect was for him to march
away. He brushed past her and walked toward the
children. Without any pretense, he approached
Julie and Cory and asked in a voice loud enough
for her to hear, "Do you actually want to place
yourselves in this woman's hands?"
  Jordan stooped down and rested on his
haunches in front of the boy. "Cory, would you
want me to find a place for you here in
Caldwell? I'm sure if I--"
  Cory's face screwed up into a painful
grimace and his small lips puckered and
trembled. It was obvious he was trying very hard not
to cry. Small tears betrayed him, escaping the
corners of his eyes and running down his freckled
cheeks. He brought a fist up to wipe away the
moisture and stared at the man in front of him.
  "No!" Julie cried out. "Don't make us
do this! Miss Elle said we all have to agree.
That means her, too. Right, Cory?"
  The boy glanced up to his sister and nodded.
Julie looked at Jordan and shook her head.
"We stick together." She put her arm around her
brother in a show of solidarity.
  Elle could have kissed those kids for their
allegiance as Jordan let out his breath
in a frustrated rush before standing. His hands on his
hips, he turned back to her. Even from such a
short distance, she could easily see the strain in his
face. He was fighting a mental battle. Her?
Or the children? They came as a package deal, and
it was obvious this agreement was not to his liking.
  Finally, he spoke.
  "Then I guess we have no choice but to put
up with Miss Elizabeth Mackenzie. But
only for one week. Does everyone understand?
She's got one week to settle this, and then I'm
going home to Texas ... a goddamned
bachelor." He tore off his hat and swiped at
the dust on his thigh. "Shit!"
  She stood next to the children and all three watched
the angry strides of the tall cowboy as he
walked away from them. Elle took a deep
cleansing breath and whispered to the kids, "He'll
be okay. He's just upset because his precious
Cynthia dumped him."
  Julie wrinkled her nose. "Dumped him?"
  Elle couldn't help smiling as she watched
Jordan disappear into a store. "That's right ...
dumped him. Hmmm? Isn't that interesting? I
don't imagine that sits too well with Captain
McCabe."
  Julie was looking up at her, a shy
expression on her face. "Miss Elle? Where
did you say you came from? We couldn't really
hear."
  Elle glanced down at the children and grinned.
"Far away, guys," she said simply.


              Chapter 10

  He simply couldn't believe that he'd been so
thoroughly taken in by her. He felt like a fool.
It wasn't the first time a woman had deceived him,
yet this bit of trickery was especially galling.
He had thought he was safe, for too many years and
far too many memories had taken away his
innocence. He had married once and Charlotte
had taught him a thing or two about women in their
short union--mostly, that they were not to be trusted.
How could he have allowed himself to forget?
  Crossing another stream, Jordan gazed up
to the cottonwood trees that lined the moist bank.
It had been a while since he'd thought about his first
wife. Not that the image of her wasn't imprinted
on his mind. He doubted he would ever be able
to erase the memory of her death. They called it
childbirth, but there had been no birth, no giving
of life. Instead, it had all been taken away.
He had tried to forgive Charlotte for not wanting
the child, and he'd told himself a thousand times that she
simply hadn't been thinking when she took the
buggy out. Even though the doctor had told her
to stay in bed, for some reason Charlotte had
ignored her mother's pleas and left the house. They
had found her a half hour later. The rig had
overturned and Charlotte was unconscious and in
hard labor. She never regained consciousness in the
torturous hours that followed, yet her body
expelled the tiny lifeless form of his son. The
unwanted child, forced to leave its protection four
months before it had any chance of survival,
continued to haunt him. And in those moments, when
visions of the child overwhelmed him, he hated
Charlotte. Perhaps it was merely guilt, that somehow
he must have been found lacking for his wife not to want
their baby. Even the rumors that followed about the child
not being his couldn't dispel the haunting image of a
son ... a lost son.
  But it was the marriage itself that had been such a
bitter disappointment, and the scar Charlotte left
on his soul ran deeper than the loss of a child. His
dream, his vision of a future, had been ripped
away. And, Christ, it was the only thing that had
kept him going since the war. It was that need
to restore, to rebuild, that had led him to place
an advertisement in the Georgia newspaper.
Hester, his mother-in-law, had fought him
at every turn. Jordan understood her reluctance
in admitting another female into the house, and he
had gone out of his way to assure the woman that she
would always have a place at Peachtree Point, but
it did little good. Hester Hunt Morgan had
spoiled and indulged her daughter, yet ruled the
household with an iron glove. Everyone who
worked in the place lived in fear of her
displeasure.
  It had all started after Charlotte's death, when
he tried to drown his grief in whiskey. For over
a month, he either shut himself in his room, or
came home drunk after visiting The Double
Aces Saloon. And in that time, Hester took
over the running of Peachtree Point. Nothing was
ever said. No questions were ever asked. She just stepped
in and took hold. Now he didn't know if she
could ever let go. There was a time when he was glad for
her efficiency, cold as it was. But now all
he wanted was the warmth of a home, instead of a
showplace.
  And he'd thought Cynthia had understood and shared
his visions of the future. She had seemed so ...
receptive to his ideas. Now he felt
foolish. Cynthia Warden realized her
mistake and turned back, without ever meeting him
or giving him a chance.
  Why didn't he just face it? He was not meant
to have a meaningful or lasting relationship with a woman.
The example of his parents' marriage was from a time
past. A time before the war had ripped away everything
normal and decent in his life.
  The hot fiery image of Lucia Perez
flashed across his brain and Jordan sat up a little
straighter as he drove the wagon toward the
small Oklahoma farm in the distance. Now
Lucia he understood. Their union was purely
physical--straight, undiluted sex with no
promises or expectations. At this moment
Lucia was the only honest woman he knew--
completely unlike the woman in the wagon
ahead of him.
  Miss Elizabeth Mackenzie was about as
honest as a snake oil salesman. And as hard
to read ... surely she had to have escaped from an
asylum. 1991! Why would she even tell such
an outrageous story? Was she on the run from the
law? Now he was stuck with her until they found a
place for the Woodson children. Well, he had
given her only one week. Five more
days, and he was determined to stay as far away from
her as possible.
  He would never admit it. He wasn't even
ready to consciously accept it, but Jordan
McCabe had felt connected to the strange
dark-haired woman in the short time they had spent
together. He told himself it was because she had deceived him
inffbelieving that she was his bride. That it was only
because she was vulnerable and in pain that he had reached out
to her. He only felt protective because she had
been sick, and it certainly couldn't have been
pride that he felt when she'd stood up for
Phoebe and the children.
  He shook his head to drive out the thoughts. He
refused to think about her. He would give her the
remainder of the week to find a suitable home and
then she was out of his life.
  Hester and Lucia were right. He didn't need
a wife.
  Wiping the sweat from his upper lip with the back of
his glove, Jordan glanced up at the blazing
sun. What he needed was a drink.
  Julie pointed out the different trees as they
passed--the black walnut, hackberry,
sycamore and willow. Sunflowers blossomed like
lofty golden sentinels guarding the more fragile
asters, columbine and verbena. Elle admitted
it was a pretty sight as they came closer to the
small white framed house--almost like an Andrew
Wyeth painting. Now if only the occupants
turned out to be as gentle and agreeable as the
setting. This was the fourth farm they had encountered in
the last twenty-four hours. Elle had found
fault with each of the others--two of the families were
too poor to take on any children, one was only
looking for someone to clean house for them and refused
to consider Cory, and Elle just plain disliked the
coarse wheat farmer who spat tobacco juice
precariously close to her shoes. There wasn't
any way she was entrusting the children to the care of such
people. Somewhere there had to be a place.
  Maybe this one ... this time.
  "They must be rich," Julie murmured in a
nervous voice. She reached out and clutched her
brother's shoulder.
  Elle was worried about Cory. He hadn't
spoken since his parents' death. No matter how
hard she or Julie tried, the boy refused
to talk. When pressed for an answer, he would either
nod or shake his head, but words had not
passed his lips. It was frightening to watch the
five-year-old emotionally shut down, his
freckled face void of expression and
response. He would sit for hours in the wagon
and pet Noah, just staring out across the prairie.
Elle wondered what thoughts occupied his young mind.
  Desperate to bring about a reaction, she leaned
down and whispered, "Do you hear the dogs barking?
They've already noticed us. Maybe you could play
with one. What do you think?"
  The child looked out to the yard, but said nothing.
Elle gave him a hug anyway and let out her
breath. She could feel the tension in his young body and
her stomach tightened with remorse. There was nothing
else she could do. It wasn't as if she could
entertain the thought of keeping the children. She had nowhere
to call home herself.
  Please God, let this be the place. Let
them find a good home with people who will give them the
love they deserve.

  "Got me a daughter already, but I could
probably use the boy in the field." The
robust farmer scratched at his chest as if
to dislodge annoying parasites.
  Trying to overlook this unfortunate, but
seemingly common affliction, Elle tried
to smile. "Well, Mr. Wynings, you see,
Cory and Julie must stay together. We couldn't
split up a family. You understand that, don't
you?" She looked to the man's wife, who stood just
behind him.
  Sun and wind had robbed her of beauty, but
Grace Wyning's face still retained an aura of
past loveliness. And she was kind. Elle could
sense that in her expression.
  Smiling with embarrassment for her husband,
Grace said, "Miss Mackenzie, our
daughter, Amanda, is plenty of help in the
house and I'm not sure we could take in another,
but I would like to have me a son. The good Lord chose
to take away my Neddie. Near broke my
heart, it did. I'd like a son--wouldn't you,
Poppa?" She touched her husband's arm.
  Mr. Wynings glanced back at his wife.
"Girl would only be a liability. One more mouth
to feed--"
  "But the boy, Poppa," Grace whispered, a
note of pleading in her voice. "We could adopt
him all proper and we'd finally have us a
son. Just look at him." They both gazed down
at Cory.
  Elle could see the farmer weakening with his wife's
appeal. She turned and looked up to Jordan.
The cowboy was standing to one side, as if the entire
encounter wasn't his business. Yet, she could
tell by his expression that Jordan was listening
to every word. It was as if he were letting her run the
show and Elle knew that if she failed the blame
would be hers alone.
  She drew her attention back to the couple in
front of her. Grace was kneeling down in
front of Cory, speaking to him, trying to draw
him out. Her husband stood just behind, waiting
patiently for the child to answer. Elle glanced up
to Julie and saw the teenager's lips tremble.
That familiar knot of apprehension began
to tighten deep in her belly. That same feeling
returned, just as it had at each of their other
stops. Call it instinct, or a premonition, but
something was forcing her to find fault with every single home
they had passed, and if she didn't, she could
easily invent a reason to take the children on to the
next town or farm.
  Like now ...
  "Should you take the children," she began in a
deceptively calm voice, "then what
provisions would you make for their education?"
  "Their education?" Grace glanced up and her
husband frowned.
  "Don't rightly need more than his sums for
figuring seed and grain, and Grace, here, will
make sure they learn passable readin'. Same
as our Amanda."
  Grace smiled at her husband. Everyone had
noticed that the man had said they.
  The knot tightened, straining her abdominal
wall. "I'm afraid that won't do."
  Jordan moaned with frustration.
  Ignoring him, Elle grinned at Julie before
turning her attention back to the Wynings. "The children
need a more formal education. Isn't there a school
nearby, someplace where they can benefit from a more
broad base of knowledge?" She knew that possibility
was remote and the knot inside of her was easing
considerably, especially since everyone was
reacting as though she had just spoken in an ancient
dialect.
  Not knowing what else to do, she merely shrugged.
"I'm sorry, it's just that I can't see
Julie and Cory being denied those
necessities." It was obvious that this farm would be
a dead end for the kids. Didn't Julie tell
her about Cory learning his letters from reading
advertisements that papered the sod house walls?
Well, she'd made a promise and somehow she
intended to keep it. Julie and Cory were
special. There was a reason she had been sent
to them. Somehow they were important, and they needed more
than learnin' sums and passable readin'.
There had to be a town where they could receive schooling
on a regular basis. She wanted to turn and
ask Jordan what was the next place on their
itinerary, but she didn't. His scowling expression
stopped her cold.
  Amid Grace's disappointment, Jordan
stepped forward and grabbed Elle's upper arm.
Leading her beyond the small group, he ignored her
muttered protests until they were a good fifteen
feet away.
  "What are you doing?" he demanded. He
released her arm as if it were something distasteful.
Despite the heavy leather gloves, he wiped his
palm on his thigh. "Just what the hell are you
pulling?"
  She actually glared at him, yet her
expression couldn't dissolve his anger and
frustration. Just what the hell was the woman up
to now? "Let's hear it."
  He could see her shoulders tighten in defense.
Her chin lift in defiance. He wanted to thrash
her for her manipulations, for exploiting these children for
her own reasons. He was sure those reasons had
to be perverted, selfish and bizarre--and crazy.
Because she certainly was.
  "How dare you?" She seemed to force the words beyond
her lips. Her mouth appeared like a white slash
of anger across her reddening face. "I'm trying
to do what's best for the kids."
  "You are not," he accused. "You're doing
what's right for you. You're using those children as a cover
--so I'll keep hauling you all over the state
until you find whatever the hell you're looking
for."
  He was glad to see that she was finally speechless.
It was a moment to savor ... and press on. "The
Wynings are good people. They'll provide for the children and
maybe even come to love them in time."
  Unfortunately, the woman found her voice and
rudely interrupted in her usual
cheeky fashion.
  "Don't you see? That's the problem." She
seemed to struggle for the right words. "Maybe in time
they'll come to love them. God, Jordan,
nobody, especially kids, should have to wait like that
to be loved."
  He couldn't say anything. He had no
answer. Something about her impassioned speech
ripped at his gut, his very foundation. She was so
worried about those kids. It was incredible for a
woman who had impersonated his bride, deceived his
men and made a complete fool out of him ... yet
she sounded so straightforward, almost as though she were
speaking from personal experience. Somewhere, in the
depths of her amber brown eyes, he
recognized a shared pain.
  Of course that was ridiculous. Miss
Elizabeth Mackenzie was an accomplished
actress and a professional liar. He wanted
to shake his head to clear out her image. "Are you
going to let them stay?" he asked, needing to fill
the uncomfortable silence as they stared at each other.
  She didn't even blink, and he almost admired
her determination when she slowly shook her head.
  "No. I have five more days. You promised."
  He was breathing heavily and he wasn't sure
whether it was entirely from anger. It took a
moment to gain control. He felt her determination
and knew no amount of talking was going to get her
to change her mind. She was the most stubborn
woman he'd ever had the misfortune to meet up
with, and he expelled his breath in a rush of
pent-up frustration. "All right, then. Five
days. But by God, woman, you mark my words. You
will find a suitable home for those children, or I'll
do it for you."
  He strode back to the wagon and instructed
Kyle to harness the lead horse. He couldn't
wait to be on his way. Anything to put distance between
him and that woman. But as he said goodbye to the
Wynings and offered his apologies, Jordan
couldn't quite shake off Elizabeth's words.
  Nobody should have to wait like that to be loved.
  He was afraid those words would come to haunt him.

  The small circle of light illuminated those
who sat around the campfire, bathing them in a soft
yellow glow. The scent of burning elm mixed
pleasantly with the tantalizing aroma of sizzling
prairie chicken. Mouths watered in
anticipation since it had been over two days
since any of them had eaten meat. This afternoon
Jordan had ridden on ahead and had returned
with the delicacy. After Elle had nearly gagged
at the thought of preparing the creature, Kyle and
Julie had willingly taken over. And now the time
had finally come to enjoy the unexpected luxury.
She could hardly wait. ...
  "Miz Elle," Kyle interrupted her thoughts
as he handed her the tin plate. "Sure smells
good."
  She accepted with thanks and politely waited
until everyone else had been served. She used
her hands to pick up the hot meat and was shocked that
it almost came second nature to her now. But then
a lot of things in her life had changed. She
hadn't had a bath in three days and her body was
beginning to smell. Well, not just beginning. There
wasn't any doubt in her mind--it did. Good
God, she remembered sitting next to Cooky and
barely being able to take a deep breath. Now
someone would think the same thing about her. She hadn't
worn makeup in days. Things like deodorant,
toothpaste and soap seemed like distant
memories. Dear God, how she had changed,
she thought as she licked the grease from her fingers.
  The chicken, well, sort of chicken, was
delicious and she told Julie.
  "My Momma showed me how when I was just little.
She said you can never tell when you might be caught
out on the prairie alone, and we should learn to fend
for ourselves. Guess nobody ever taught you is
all."
  Elle nodded, ignoring Jordan's sudden
interest. "No, I guess not," she said,
remembering microwave ovens and quick,
prepackaged dinners for one. "Give me a little
time, though. I'm a quick learner."
  "So's Cory," Kyle pointed out. "He
helped, too, didn't you, Cory?"
  Everyone looked to the small boy who was seated
Indian-style in front of the campfire.
Nodding, he continued to stare into the flame. But he
didn't answer. When was he going to start talking
again? It was beginning to worry everyone. All made
an effort to draw the child out, even Jordan, but
to no avail. Cory Woodson seemed to be
going deeper and deeper into himself. Perhaps, thought
Elle, he was trying to find a safe place, a
spot in his subconscious where no one
could hurt him again.
  She didn't blame him, but she knew it
couldn't go on much longer. He might never come
back.
  They continued to eat in silence, as was their
custom. The first night on the trail, Elle had
tried to start up a lively conversation, but found that
everyone else merely wanted to concentrate on
eating. It took her two more days to realize why.
Food, dinnertime, was a means of surviving--not a
pleasant, lingering repast with friends. This was
entirely different.
  She no longer tried to inject witty
dialogue into a discussion of how long it might be
before they hooked up with the herd. Now she just listened,
and ate, and watched.
  Her mind yearned for the banality of television.
As she became mesmerized by the fire, Elle
absently chewed the meat while wondering what was
happening on "Thirty-something." Was Melissa
ever going to find the right man? Would Hope ever stop
whining and letting everyone know just how perfect she
was? Such important, heady questions--but now she
might never know the answers. Last week she would
have laughed at the thought of even caring about
fictitious characters on a TV show. Now,
realizing that she might never watch TV again made
her downright maudlin. Everything had been taken
away from her--her home, her job, friends--even
her way of kicking back and forgetting about her
problems. She didn't even have a decent book
to pass the time.
  Wait a minute, wait a minute ...
  Was it only her imagination, or was young,
healthy, eighteen-year-old Kyle Reavis
looking at fourteen-year-old Julie
Woodson like a lovesick calf? And could it be
that the very pretty blush on Julie's cheeks was
brought on by something more than her proximity to the
campfire?
  Was it only her imagination, or had the two of
them been spending more and more time together in the last few
days? Elle recalled how Julie had
volunteered to ride the Woodsons' horse for
exercise, rather than remain in the wagon. Elle
remembered being jealous of the diversion. Nothing in the
world could have prepared her for days on a hard wooden
bench, her posterior muscles screaming in
protest of every rut and furrow that slashed across the
prairie. Yet every time she thought of
complaining, her gaze settled on Mr. Perfect
Cowboy and she swallowed her grievance.
  If he could do it, then so could she.
  She forgot about Julie and Kyle and
concentrated on Jordan Dillon McCabe.
The man was every cliche about a male and the West
rolled into one. He was strong, silent and rugged.
He was sullen, withdrawn and ornery. She
reluctantly admitted that he was also dependable,
responsible and drop-dead gorgeous. The latter
rankled her the most. Why couldn't he look like
Cookie, or Traver? But he didn't.
  As if some strange, magnetic pull existed
between them, McCabe lifted his face and caught
her staring. She tried to look away, yet for a
few seconds she was captured by his gaze.
He studied her across the campfire and she couldn't
break the spell. Eerie shadows from the fire
danced around them, making it all seem unreal.
  His face looked like it was sculpted from hard
granite. His eyes were hooded, lazy, as he
continued to stare at her. It was almost as if he were
thinking aloud his questions and she could hear them. Who
are you? Why have you come into my life? She had
already told him the truth ... and he'd thought she was
crazy. As Jordan wiped the edge of his mouth
on his sleeve, Kyle turned his attention away
from Julie and back to his boss.
  "So you think by tomorrow or the next day, Cap'n?"
  "What?" Jordan looked confused as he
glanced at the boy.
  "Traver and the boys. Do you think we'll hook
up with them before the Red River Station?"
  She watched Jordan shrug, trying
to recapture his composure. "They must be making
good time," he said. "I expected to catch up with
them before we left Henessey--"
  Elle listened as the two males talked, and
names and memories mingled together as she thought of the
places they had passed on this incredible trip.
Enid. Dover. Bullfoot Springs. The
Arkansas River. The Cimarron River.
North Canadian River. Amber and
Tuttle, where they had stopped at the Silver
Creek Trading Post. There Elle had seen
real Indians. Not the tall proud savage
portrayed so often in books and movies, but a more
quiet, humble version. She didn't think she would
ever be able to erase that difference in her mind. It was
one thing to read about the conquest of the West.
It was quite another to actually witness that it had been
obtained at the expense of an entire race.
  "When we get to Rush Springs tomorrow, Miz
Elle, you and Miz Julie can wash up and all
before we hit Alexander. Nice little town, huh,
Cap'n?" Now that the eating part was over, Kyle
was ready to make conversation.
  All Elle heard were the words, wash up.
"What do you mean?" she asked Kyle. "How can
we wash up? Is there a hotel?"
  Kyle looked at Jordan and both men
smiled. Kyle shook his head. "No, ma'am.
There's springs. You know--bubbling water that comes
up from the ground."
  "Outside?" Julie asked, a note of
astonishment in her voice.
  Kyle nodded. "Sure. Right out in front of
God and everybody. Better'n any bath I ever
had in any hotel. Don't you think, Cap'n?"
  Everyone's attention turned to Jordan. He
smiled at the young man. "You're right there,
Kyle. There is definitely something to be said for
being one with nature at Rush Springs. After the
last few days, I can hardly wait for tomorrow."
  He glanced at Elle and she felt her face
become flushed. Traitorous threads of
anticipation snaked their way down her body and
settled uncomfortably in her thighs. She
shifted her hips and tried to change positions, but
everything she did only heightened the unwelcome
sensations. She peeked at Jordan and was
mortified that he was studying her. It truly was as
if he could read her mind. She had the uncanny
suspicion he knew exactly what she was
thinking ... and feeling.
  It was humiliating.
  It was also exciting.
  That admission worried her.

              Chapter 11

  "C'mon, Cory, you have to get in. We all
are."
  The small boy stared at the damp ground in
front of him. He didn't refuse. He
simply didn't respond. Not to anyone.
  Jordan tried again. "Listen, son. It's
really very nice. Your sister and Miss
Elizabeth are only on the other side of this
tree. They're in the water already."
  The child made no move.
  Sighing, Jordan reached out and tentatively
pushed a tiny yellowed button through its hole.
The small blue collar opened and, receiving no
protest, Jordan proceeded to unbutton the
rest of Cory's shirt.
  When he pulled the material away and helped
Cory to remove his arms, Jordan caught his
breath at the sight of the small, white chest. There
was nothing remarkable about it. A little thin for a
five-year-old, with the clear outline of a rib
cage. But there was also innocence. There was no hair
yet to hint at puberty, nor definition of
muscle. There was, in fact, nothing to indicate
the difference of sexes.
  And at that moment, as he helped young Cory
Woodson remove his shoes and trousers,
Jordan felt the stab of his own loss. His son
would have been about Cory's age. A little younger
perhaps, but still the same fragile innocence ... before
life stripped it all away.
  And then he looked into Cory's face and saw
that this child had been denied even that. His world had been
shattered, the same as any seasoned veteran's.
And it was too much for his young mind to comprehend. As
Cory stood nude in front of him, he saw the
child shiver even though the wind was warm. Something
broke inside the man then, something undefinable
... a wash of tenderness, perhaps, for a kindred soul.
  Aware that Cory stood waiting, Jordan
hurried to shed his own clothes. Kyle was already in the
water and Jordan didn't even hesitate before
picking up the young boy and holding him close
to his chest. There was a certain feeling when the child's
skin made contact with his own. He wasn't quite
sure what it was. He only knew it felt
right, like something that had been denied him.
  Holding Cory in his arms Jordan entered the
warm springs and sat down, placing the child next
to him. Cory sat on a dirt ledge, the warm
bubbling water reaching his shoulders. It was soothing and
relaxing and it even tickled, yet the child merely
sat and stared.
  A warning chill ran up Jordan's back.
Something was very wrong with this child. And he hadn't the
slightest notion of how to fix it.
  He lifted his chin and looked beyond the willow
tree that separated the males from the females.
Long graceful branches fanned out and down to the
water, creating a natural curtain.
Almost. If he strained his eyes he could make out
the faint outline of a shapely back and long,
dark, wet hair that lay flat against it.
  Maybe she would know what to do with the child.
  He shrugged. He might as well ask. What
the hell did he have to lose at this point?

  It was sheer heaven. She couldn't even bear
to talk to Julie. All she wanted was to relax
and let the warm bubbles caress her skin. She
felt blessed by nature that it would provide this
luxury when she had thought she might never be clean
again. A feeling of well-being permeated her system
just as the soothing water entered her pores. Maybe
everything was going to work out in the end. Maybe she would
find the perfect place for the children and then be taken
back to her own time. She realized as she lay
back against the flat rock that she hadn't been
exactly open to any of the prospective parents
that they had thus encountered. But all that would change.
Kyle had said that this town of Alexander that they would
hit this afternoon was progressive. Surely there they
would be able to find--
  "Ahh, excuse me, but I was wondering if
I could talk to you for a few minutes?"
  She let out a little squeal and crossed her arms
over her chest, cupping each breast in her palms.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she
demanded of him as Julie moved away and hid
herself behind a heavy, swaying, willow branch.
  "Look, I know this isn't the best time, but
well ... you're here and I couldn't see what
harm it would do--"
  "Oh really?" she interrupted, as she sank
down until the water reached her chin. "Well,
I would think that if you had something to say, Mr.
McCabe, then you had ample opportunity in the
last week." She flipped her hair back from
her face and glared at him. "You've done a
pretty good job of pretending I don't even
exist."
  "Yes, I know," he said in an apologetic
voice. "And I'm sorry. But now I want
to talk to you about Cory." His voice lowered and he
glanced back toward the other side of the tree.
Running his hand over his face, he pushed the wet
hair back off his forehead. "Something's wrong with the
child."
  Her mouth opened. "And you just noticed this?"
  He made sure that he stayed on his
side of the tree, but she could still see him shake his
head. "Well, no. I mean the boy's been
quiet, but this is ... it's strange."
  "He's in shock," she said. "Remember what
he's been through." Her hair floated about her like
a dark water lily and yet she could do nothing about
it without first letting go of her breasts. And she
wasn't about to do that. "Maybe there's a doctor
in Alexander that can help him. A psychiatrist?"
  "Who?" Jordan cupped his hands and brought
water up over his head.
  Elle found that her speech was being affected as
she watched the sun reflect off the rivulets of
water running down over his cheeks and chin and chest
and arms. Biceps and triceps ... Dear
God, his stomach looked like a washboard. ...
"Ahh, psychiatrist. Sigmund Freud?"
When the hell did modern psychiatry come
into use?
  "I don't know what that is. But I'm sure
Alexander has a doctor. The town has really
grown over the last few years with all the cattle
drives that's come up from Texas. But do you really
think a doctor can help Cory? I mean, it
doesn't seem like it's anything physical. Do
they have medicines for this?"
  Even though he would move in and out of shadows
to avoid looking at her, she could tell by his
expression and the sound of his voice that he really
cared. Something had happened in the time since they had
entered these springs. Captain McCabe had
changed and taken an interest in the children, at least in
Cory.
  Maybe her mission wasn't going to be so hard
after all. Now, at least, it appeared that she had
an ally. Who would have thought Mr. Jordan
Dillon McCabe, strong, silent,
self-righteous, would be so affected by a small child?
  She had to bite the inside of her cheek to stop
the smile. Why, she almost felt a spark of
warmth ignite inside of her. Perhaps he wasn't
so bad after all?

  She no longer felt guilty wearing
Cynthia's clothes. She chose a white
cotton blouse with heavy lace at the collar to go
with the brown gabardine skirt. What did it
matter anymore? No one made any mention that
these things belonged to another woman and, in truth,
Elle was beginning to feel like the trunk and
its contents were as much hers as Miss Cynthia
Warden's. Anyway, Cynthia had chosen
to turn around and go back to the safety of
Georgia. She probably didn't ever
expect to recover the trunk, and Elle needed
clothes--even if they were meant for a woman taller
than five-foot-four inches. Tucking the shirt
in, she rolled the waistband of the skirt to shorten
it and took a deep breath. There was only so much
she could do to look presentable. She had already
braided her hair and tied the thick end with a tiny
white satin bow. After all, Jordan had said
they were going into a real town, with real stores and
everything. For a fleeting moment she thought of the plush
interiors of Macy's and Wanamakers' and
yearned for her soft, worn Ralph Lauren
jeans, her prized Donna Karan cardigan.
Who was taking care of her things now? Her
apartment? Her car? Her job? Had she lost it?
What about her mother? What was Margaret
Mackenzie thinking? Was she grieving over the
loss of her daughter?
  Elle shook her head. Her mother probably
took the news in stride--the same way she
accepted every other rotten thing that had happened to her.
And thinking of her mother, Elle absent-mindedly
picked up the silver mirror to check her
appearance.
  It happened again. The shock of seeing her mother's
worried face in the cracked glass took
Elle's breath away. She wanted to drop the
mirror, but something in her mother's expression made
her fingers tighten on the ornate handle.
  Margaret Mackenzie's eyes looked ...
tormented, as if her life were over and she just
hadn't accepted it yet.
  Dear God, why was this happening?
  Frightened, Elle closed her eyes to shut out the
image, wondering for the thousandth time why her mother just
didn't leave her father and make a new life.
How many times had she begged, had offered to help
her Mom out of the nightmare?
  Go away. Please, she mentally commanded.
I can't do anything about it now. Now she had
to concentrate on her mission, her real mission for
being thrown back in time.
  The children.
  When she returned, she'd try again to talk
to her mother--to get her to leave that impossible
situation. But she couldn't do anything about
it now, except worry. Taking a deep breath,
she opened her eyes and was relieved to see her own
reflection.
  Her face was sunburned; her freckles
stood out in relief. But it was her own image that
stared back at her and even though she didn't wear
a speck of makeup, Elle was overjoyed.
Whatever weird occurrence took place when she
looked in the mirror ... it was over.
  Running a fingertip over her cheekbone, she
couldn't help but wonder why Margaret
Mackenzie was haunting her through a mirror when
she was alive and well in 1991.
  She was well.
  Wasn't she?
  Elle caught her breath for a moment, wondering
if her father had started to beat her mom again. Her
jaw tightened with past memories of her mother begging
her to hide while the fighting took place, of
screams of pain and terror, of police banging
on the front door and dark closets that held the
only comfort for a small child.
  Elle shook her head to drive out the
memories as Julie walked up to her and asked
a question. She barely listened to the teenager.
Instead, she stared off across the bubbling springs and
mentally reached out ...
  Mom, be careful. Hold on. I'm coming
back. I promise. And this time I vow to stop
it.

  In the midst of tall bluestem grass and the
shorter blue grama and buffalo, the town of
Alexander, Oklahoma rose up on the
prairie like a heaven of civilization. It seemed
to welcome all visitors and announce itself as
being a place where a grand celebration was in full
swing. A huge red, white and blue bunting was
hung from Glenmartin's Emporium on the east
side of the street to Nordhoff's Barber Shop
on the west.
  Founder's Day Race and Picnic
  Even Elle was elated as they drove up the
wide center street. There was an air of
excitement in the town. Men checked on
last-minute preparations; children ran wild while
mothers merely smiled as they added their own
contributions to tables already laden with food.
Everyone was friendly and Elle had a good feeling about
this town. The sun was shining and she looked
up to a fat white cloud that kaleidoscoped the
brilliant rays. When she was a young child walking
home from school, she remembered stopping on the
sidewalk and watching almost the same picture.
At the time she had thought those rays were God's
heavenly graces coming down to earth. Like at the end
of a rainbow, she was certain something good would be found.
Now she wasn't quite sure. She wasn't
exactly ready to rid herself of the childish image
of God's kindness to mankind. After everything that had
happened to her in the last week, she was
reluctant to rule out anything, especially something
Divine. But maybe, just maybe, this was a good
sign. Perhaps Alexander was going to be the magical
place.
  And then she could go home.
  Already her heart felt lighter.
  "Gonna enter the race, Cap'n?"
  Jordan shrugged while glancing around the center
of town. God, it was good to be with people again. What
luck that they should come on this day. Surely this
celebration would spark an interest in Cory.
Reaching for the child, Jordan said, "What do you think,
Cory? Should I do it?"
  Cory merely blinked.
  "Well, I'm gonna do it," Kyle
announced to everyone. "Said the first prize was a
twenty-dollar gold piece."
  "Really?" Julie asked her young friend. "Do you
think you could win?" A pretty blush heightened the
color in her cheeks and she glanced down to the
dirt road.
  "Why sure," Kyle declared, pushing back the
rim of his brown hat. He was filled with young
male bravado. "And if I couldn't, then the
Cap'n would save the day. Mark my words, the
Triple Cross'll capture that gold
piece."
  Jordan laughed. "Wait a minute,
Kyle. I like your confidence, but remember that our
horses haven't had a good run in over a
week. Be pretty hard to compete against the rest
of the field." He tousled Cory's blond
curls and smiled at the females. "I'd
imagine the others have been practicing for weeks just
for today."
  "Ahh, c'mon, Cap'n," Kyle appealed.
"You know we can do it. Let's register."
  Julie appeared excited and Elle grinned as
Jordan looked at her.
  "What do you think?" he asked.
  Elle was so shocked he had asked her opinion
that she could only shrug.
  "Well, then, let's go," Jordan said,
while placing a hand on Cory's shoulder.
"We'll give it a good try, won't we,
son? 'Bout time those nags got some exercise."
  Elle's mouth opened with surprise as she
watched Jordan lead them in the direction of the
registration table. The big, tough cowboy looked
... almost young and happy while paying the dollar
fee for both Kyle and himself.
  He turned around and surveyed the town of
Alexander, like a young kid let loose in a candy
store. "Race doesn't start for another two
hours yet. Let's see what else we can
discover until then. Hey, Cory, a greased
pig contest ... Look over there," he pointed in
the direction of a square tank of water and a large
barrel-chested man sitting on a small slab of
wood. In huge red letters above him someone had
crudely painted the words, Dunk The
Marshal. It appeared, from the line of youngsters
waiting their turn, that this was a very popular game.
  Taking Cory's hand, Jordan led him toward
the crowd of children and adults, each hooting and
hollering and waiting for the chance to see the large man
fall into the water. Elle followed, clearly
fascinated by the turn of events. Whatever had
happened at Rush Springs had changed
Jordan. He had plainly taken Cory under his
wing.
  It was odd.
  And, in a weird way, it was wonderful.
  As she stood in back of them, she shook her
head. He was certainly keeping her confused. One
moment he was attentive and sweet. Of course that
was before he had known that she wasn't Cynthia.
Then he had become withdrawn and resentful. And
now ... now he was ... nice.
  Her smile grew wider as she watched him
bend down to talk to Cory. She was positive
Cory didn't respond, but Jordan acted as
if he did. He walked up to a short man who
held a small basket of balls and paid him a
coin.
  After joining Julie and Kyle at the front
of the crowd, Elle found that her hands were tightly
clasped together in front of her. Jordan was going
to try and dunk the marshal. She shouldn't
have cared whether he succeeded in this childish game,
yet some shred of loyalty sprang forth inside of
her and she silently cheered him on. Standing next
to Cory, she reached for his small hand and squeezed
it tightly as the first ball glanced off the metal
lever.
  "Hey, stranger, what're you trying to do?
Came pretty close to gettin' in trouble with the
law there."
  There was a murmur of laughter and Jordan
called back, "Sorry, Marshal, just passing
through. Pretty hot day, though, huh?"
  The lawman played along. "Sayin' I'm
gettin' hot under the collar there, mister? Think
you're the man to cool me off?"
  Laughing, Jordan shook his head. "Not me.
I'm just helping out here. This is only my
contribution to the Founder's Day Fund."
  The marshal grinned. "Okay, then let's see
what you've got. That first ball was nothin' more than
a lucky break."
  Jordan looked at Cory and winked. Elle
glanced down and was glad to see Cory paying
attention. That glassy look was gone from his eyes.
His attention was, in fact, completely centered
on Jordan. It was painfully obvious that this
small child was starting to fixate on the cowboy. A
short pang of sympathy tugged at her heart and
she squeezed the child's hand before lifting her head.
  He was looking at her. Over the heads of the
women in straw bonnets and the men in cowboy
hats, Jordan was looking directly at her.
  It was only for a second, yet a quick stab of
excitement ran up her thighs and settled in her
belly. It was stupid, childish, yet when he
brought back his arm and the marshal went falling into the
water tank, Elle threw her arms up in the
air and jumped as high as any actor in a
Toyota commercial.
  She wanted to run up and throw her arms around
him, but others were already slapping him on the back.
Amid the laughter and congratulations, Jordan
made his way to the tank and offered his hand to the
lawman. When the marshal was again seated on his
perch, dripping with water, Jordan then turned and
looked over the crowd to her.
  He smiled.
  A real, genuine, totally male smile.
  And that's when Elle Mackenzie knew she was
in trouble.

              Chapter 12

  "All right, gentlemen, you all know the rules.
Three revolutions 'round the town, back up
Main Street. No shoving, kicking, whipping--
and, for the womenfolk, no undue foul
language." Amid the nervous laughter was also a
distinct charge of excitement.
  The race was about to begin.
  Elle stood off to one side of the street with
Julie and Cory. Her gaze never left
Jordan and Kyle. The two men from the Triple
Cross sat atop tall horses. Jordan's
was black with white stockings. Kyle's was
spotted brown and white. Both men looked
determined, just like all the others in the field.
Farmers and merchants controlled their mounts
alongside cowboys and old wranglers. Everyone
was eager for the race to begin, confident that the shiny
twenty-dollar gold piece would soon warm their
palm.
  Elle looked down the dirt street. Women
and old men lined the wooden sidewalk clear to the
end of town. People were waving at the riders, calling
out encouragement. Everyone was smiling and the
excitement was contagious. No matter that
Alexander was a small, struggling community on the
edge of the Oklahoma border. Right now it could have
been Churchill Downs. It was obvious this race
was more than an afternoon's contest. It was the Event of the
Year.
  An old cowboy walked in front of them,
juggling two small apples, a green ball and a
yellow sphere of yarn. He talked to the children as
he passed, reminding them of the sack races, the
egg contest and the square dance that night.
  A dance.
  She felt a mixture of dread and
anticipation. Would they go? And what would they all
do if they did? Julie and Kyle might dance,
but--she couldn't even finish the thought. Turning her
head, Elle was startled to find that Jordan was
staring at her. While others seemed to struggle
to control their horses, he did so with ease. She
wanted to tell him good luck, yet neither of them
said a word. There was a strange communication taking
place and she almost felt the distance between them
disappear. It was eerie, and totally unsettling, just
like at the dunking cage. She sensed he
knew her thoughts, for a small grin played at the
corner of his mouth, and she found her own lips
answering in a smile.
  Then he nodded.
  Just like he knew that she was thinking about the dance.
  But why did he nod? What the hell did that
mean?
  The smile left her lips as the stout mayor
lifted his gun to signal the start of the race. She
held her breath as she tried to clear her head.
Dear God, why is all this happening now? Why
now, when there is absolutely nothing that can come of
it?
  The gunshot shattered her thoughts, and as the race
began, Elle's attention was centered on the
riders, just like everyone else in Alexander.
  Jordan and Kyle bolted forward and stayed at
the front of the field. Perhaps six horses
remained at the lead while the others kept close
on their heels. Elle was shocked at the speed,
for all the while they were on the prairie, she had
never seen the horses do more than trot. Now, in
a flash of color and movement, they were leaving the
main street and circling the town. She could hear the
thunder of their hooves and found that she, like everyone
else, was leaning out and looking toward the right--
waiting for the field to appear as it re-entered the
main street.
  When it did, she was struck by the magnitude of
force that flashed in front of her. She was keenly
aware of animal muscles shining with sweat, the
blur of flaring nostrils and wild eyes, the
thunderous roar of hooves crashing against the ground and the
dirt--the flying dirt that was kicked up as they
passed.
  It was primitive and basic entertainment. There
was no artificial machinery, only two of
nature's creatures joining together in competition.
Man and beast. It was wonderful.
  Especially since Jordan was a good five
feet ahead of Kyle and the rest of the pack.
  She hugged Cory to her stomach when Julie
yelled, "He's going to win! Captain
McCabe is going to win!"
  Elle couldn't contain a smile and her heart
swelled with pride, as if Jordan really
belonged to her. "He is, isn't he?" she
giggled, like a young girl Julie's age. She
tightened her hold on Cory. "What do you
think, Cory? Do you think he can do it?"
  Before she could say anything more, the crowd started
yelling as the field of horses came back
into view. She could see Jordan's blue shirt
as he bent low over his horse's neck. He was
still leading. He looked young and happy, almost
carefree, as the wind pushed the hair back off his
face. He looked like he knew he was going
to win, that nothing could stop him--
  It happened as if in slow motion. In one
moment, the scene was set. Jordan ahead of the
others, sure of victory. In the next, the
yellow ball of yarn that the old cowboy had been
juggling fell into the street and a small girl of
no more than three or four ran out after it--right
into the path of the oncoming horses.
  Elle's scream joined scores of others as
Julie turned her head into Elle's chest
to hide her face. Elle clutched Cory's
shoulder as the terrible nightmare continued ... the
powerful force of hooves pounding the earth and bearing
down on the child in the tiny white pinafore.
  Elle was sure the child was doomed, for no one could
possibly outrun the horses and save her. She
wanted to turn her face away, to hide like
Julie, yet if she had done so she would have
missed a man's finest moment.
  As if he had planned it all along,
Jordan changed direction, left the front of the
pack and, reaching down like a rodeo trick rider,
swooped the little girl up in his arms. All the
others roared by on their way to the finish line. He
slowly stopped, as though the race had meant nothing
more than exercise for the horse, and deposited the child
into the arms of a sobbing woman. Jordan didn't
dismount; he merely walked the animal to cool him
down while the winner of the race came back
to discuss what had happened.
  Half the people were applauding the young cowboy from a
local ranch and the other half were crowding around
Jordan. It was clear to the populace of
Alexander that there were two winners that day, and both
men were being treated as heroes.
  Elle was shaking as she stared across the street
to Jordan. Everyone had crowded around him and he
looked uncomfortable with their attention. She could
see he was trying to move through them but they were
blocking his way.
  "I always thought of horse racing as sweating
hides and young men's prides. But you must be
pretty proud of that husband of yours."
  She turned at the sound of the voice. An
older woman in a heavy black dress and a
matching ruffled bonnet smiled at her.
  Not knowing how else to respond, Elle nodded.
  "Takes some kind of man to do that. These your
children?" The woman's face was open and friendly as she
looked at Julie and Cory.
  Elle glanced up at Jordan. He was still
surrounded by grateful people, trying to make his way
through them. Realizing she would have to do this alone, she
turned to the older woman and said, "This is Cory
and Julie Woodson. They ... ah, they lost
their parents. I ... Jordan and I," she
corrected, "are hoping to find them a good home."
  The woman was immediately sympathetic. "Oh,
I'm so sorry. Indians?" She reached out and
patted Julie's shoulder.
  Elle shook her head. "No. Nothing like that.
It was an accident. In Kansas ..." Her
voice trailed off.
  The woman nodded. "This is a harsh life and
it's so hard to figure God's ways in these
matters." She lowered her voice and leaned
closer to Elle. "You are fortunate, though, that
you've come to Alexander. These tragedies have
happened far too often in the past years--what with the
Chickasaw so upset with the cattle drives and
everything--well, we've had to establish an
orphanage."
  "An orphanage?" She and Julie said the
word together.
  "I believe it's the first in the territory."
  "An orphanage?" Elle repeated in an
incredulous voice. "Here? In Alexander?"
  "Why, yes. Miss Avoula Turner founded
the Turner Guardianship. I do believe there
are seven or eight children there right now."
  "An ... an orphanage," Julie
whispered, and Elle could detect the note of
horror in her voice.
  She didn't have time to respond, for the crowd of
people that surrounded Jordan moved with him as he
made his way toward her and the children. As she waited,
she tightened her hold on Cory's shoulder
to make sure he wasn't swept away in the
sea of townspeople that preceded Jordan.
  It was plain ridiculous.
  He had handed his horse over to Kyle and now
tried to maneuver himself through the multitude of
outstretched palms that either shook his or
slapped him on the back. He couldn't help
grinning, but it was more with bewilderment than any other
emotion. He hadn't done anything differently
than anyone else. And he certainly wasn't this
hero that these people were making him out to be; he'd just been
in the lead and better able to get to the child. He had
tried to explain that, but no one seemed inclined
to listen. And so he'd smiled and nodded and
attempted to push his way to Elizabeth and the children.
  It was the oddest thing. When he had safely
deposited the little girl into her mother's arms, the first
thing he'd thought about wasn't the race, or his
loss. It was Elizabeth. And Julie. And
especially Cory. were they safe? It had taken
him a few moments to locate them and then he'd
been surrounded and barely able to make it across the
street.
  For some strange reason he needed to touch them.
To connect with her and the children. It was as if they were ...
he was about to think "family," but that was absurd.
They were nearly strangers, which made his reaction
all the more foolish. But as he reached the wooden
sidewalk, his gaze locked with Elizabeth's and
something really frightening happened.
  It started in his belly and curled its way down
his legs and back up to his groin. She was so
goddamned beautiful it almost hurt that she
wasn't really his. And as he came closer,
he knew it wasn't just because of the way she looked.
Elizabeth Mackenzie was the most remarkable
woman he had ever known.
  He also acknowledged with a sinking feeling that he
wasn't ready to give her up.
  Not just yet ...
  "Are you all right?" she asked, licking at her
lips as if they were dry.
  Nodding, he bent down and picked up Cory.
It barely mattered that the child didn't speak. It
was almost as if they silently communicated. How
else would Jordan know that Cory's small hand
clutching at his shirt collar only meant that the
boy had been frightened, and was now happy that it was
all over and everyone was safe?
  Jordan closed his eyes for a moment and slowly
expelled his breath. Smiling, he felt the tension
leave his body. "I'm fine," he finally
answered. "Although everyone is certainly making far
too much out of losing a race."
  Her smile increased. "Oh, I don't think
so."
  "You're too modest, Mr. McCabe," the
stout woman at Elizabeth's side added.
"Miss Amy Furgusson will grow up knowing she
owes her life to you."
  He was embarrassed and didn't know what
to say. Thankfully, the mayor had at last
made his way up onto the sidewalk and joined the
group.
  After taking deep breaths to recapture his
wind, the man said in a voice loud enough for all
to hear, "The town council has conferred and we
declare two winners today. Jake Jacovic from
Bent Fork and Mr. Jordan McCabe.
Abner Coulten from the bank has generously put
up the additional prize money."
  Cheers went up all around them and Cory
buried his face against Jordan's neck, as if
to hide from the enthusiastic applause. Holding the
boy tighter, Jordan raised his hand to ask for
quiet. He tried not to sound as bewildered as he
felt. "Thank you for the offer, but I can't accept.
Alexander had one champion in the Founder's Day
race, and the victory should go to him alone."
  Denials came from all around.
  "No. You can't refuse. You were ahead."
  "Everyone knows you were the sure winner."
  "You saved a girl's life, young man. You
must accept this honor."
  "How else can we repay you?"
  Jordan tried to interject an answer. "You
don't have to do anything--"
  Someone interrupted him. He couldn't see who,
nor would it have made any difference. It was as if
these people were determined to make him out to be more than he
was. He looked at Elizabeth and shook his
head in amazement.
  "All right, then listen," the loud male voice
interposed. "You and your wife and children will be my
guests at the hotel for as long as you stay in
Alexander."
  "And new clothes from my store. Bet the
missus would love a pretty new dress for the
dance tonight."
  "Nonsense. Mrs. McCabe will be
outfitted by my shop."
  Another voice joined the others. "And when you
leave, I'll equip you with fresh supplies."
The offers came from all around them.
  "Well, you can't say Alexander doesn't know
how to show its appreciation," the mayor
said, then laughed at Jordan's dazed
expression. "Come," he added, steering Jordan,
Elle and the children through the crowd, "you and your family
will join mine for the picnic and we can discuss the finer
points of horsemanship. You wouldn't know to look
at me now, but in my day I was considered quite an
equestrian."
  Giving up, Jordan merely smiled. He was
only half listening. It had just dawned on him that
neither he nor Elizabeth had corrected the man
when he'd called her wife. For just a moment,
Jordan had wished it were so, then the idea was so
ludicrous that he shook it from his head. He never
reasoned that by his silence he was pretending
Elizabeth Mackenzie somehow belonged to him.
  How could he even consider it? He and
Elizabeth? It was an idea that scared the hell
out of him.
               * * *
  The room was large for a hotel in a small
town. There were two double beds separated by a
marble-topped washstand. The hotel owner had
apologized for putting them all together but added that this
was the very last available room in town. He had
gone on to explain that farmers and ranchers came from
over seventy-five miles for this weekend's
festivities. Elle kept nodding, dreading the
moment that they would be left alone. What in the world
would they say to each other?
  "Well, I guess I'll see you all tonight
at the dance. Be sure to save me a reel,
Mrs. McCabe."
  Elle could feel the heat of a blush creep up
from her throat. She tried to smile, knowing she must
look laughable. Dear God, she was a computer
sales rep, respected in her field, and here
she was blushing like a shy teenager. It had nothing
to do with dancing with the man. It had everything to do with being
called Mrs. McCabe.
  The man nodded to Jordan and then left.
  Jordan turned around to her and shrugged.
  "I'm sorry. I didn't know what else
to do. I should have said something, corrected them earlier
--about us being married."
  She didn't say anything. She couldn't.
  He cleared his throat. "Well, ah ... you
and Julie can have that bed," he said, while pointing
to the one closest to the window. "And, Kyle,
Cory and me will take this one. Don't worry,
I'll try and work out some privacy for you
ladies. Right, boys?"
  He looked to Kyle and Cory for help.
Kyle nodded while nervously wiping the toe of his
boot on the back leg of his jeans. Cory just
stared.
  "Okay." Jordan tried again as he pointed
to a neat stack of boxes. "All the bows and things
you girls picked out have obviously been
delivered. Why don't we get dressed first and
then let you two have the room. We'll wait for you
downstairs."
  Elle quickly nodded. Grabbing Julie's arm,
she headed for the door. "Sounds great," she
muttered, before pushing the young girl into the narrow
hallway.
  When the door was closed behind her, she stopped and
let out her tightly held breath. How in the world
was she expected to spend the night in the same
room with that man? Sleeping out under the stars was one
thing. All of a sudden the confinement of that bedroom
seemed stifling.
  Maybe she would just dance all night.
  God, she hoped the hotel owner had been
serious and could dance.
  For that matter, she hoped she could. It was a
safe bet no one tonight was going to do anything even
vaguely familiar.
  Come to think of it, how the hell did one dance a
"reel"?
  Elle's loud groan made Julie look
at her with concern.
  "Are you all right, Miss Elle?" the young
girl asked.
  "Great," Elle answered. "Everyone thinks
we're married. We all have to spend the night
together. What else can happen?"
  "Oh, Miss Elle, if that's what's
bothering you we can always string a blanket between the
beds. I'm just so nervous about tonight. I mean ...
a dance ..."
  Elle wasn't listening. A blanket between the
beds--right out of "It Happened One Night."
  Hmm ...
  Okay, if Gable and Colbert could get through
it, then maybe she and McCabe stood a chance.
  Maybe.

  It was absurd.
  No one could possibly wear all this gear and still
be able to dance. She could barely manage
walking. She'd already knocked over a vase of
wildflowers just by turning around too quickly when
Julie had asked a question. There was no doubt about
it. Tonight was going to be a disaster.
  Julie wore a blue-and-white candy-stripe
muslin dress. It had a wide skirt, square
neckline and full sleeves. With Julie's
blond hair pulled back with a white satin
ribbon, she reminded Elle of Disney's
Cinderella. And as young as she was, she managed
the hooped skirt quite well.
  Elle, on the other hand, was a calamity
waiting to happen. Try as she might, she
simply couldn't get used to the ridiculous
bustle on the back of her white gauze dress.
That bustle was an instrument of torture that could
only have been designed by a man--a man who
hated women. When she had first seen the thing in the
dress shop, she'd merely laughed, never dreaming
it would be so awkward, and besides, she had loved the
silky texture of the dress, the rich
grass-green satin trim, the tiny purple and
green flowers that decorated the hem. It was nothing
at all like her own tailored, designer clothes.
This was soft and feminine and totally unlike her.
And yet, she had wanted it from the moment she'd
seen it hanging in Miss Chatwin's shop.
  She just didn't realize all the accessories
that would accompany such a fragile costume. First
there was the underwear. Now that should have told her
something. She had ranted and raved to Julie,
complaining that no woman could be expected to wear it
all, especially since it was summer and they were
almost in Texas, and what about the heat? And why do
women allow men to dictate what is proper or
not? Julie had just shaken her head as she tried
to help Elle with the layers and layers of
undergarments. First there was the chemise, then the
open-leg drawers of white cotton with tucks,
frills and lace that Miss Chatwin had
practically cooed over calling broderie
anglaise ... whatever that meant. Then, as if that
were not enough for a hot summer evening, why, there was a
waist petticoat, a whalebone corset that she
refused to tighten and finally, the true affront to the
female form--the bustle. Or, as Miss
Chatwin preferred to call it, the tournure.
A polite name for torture.
  This contraption consisted of numerous cane hoops
and pads that increased in size from the waist
to the hem. Looking at herself in the small hotel
room mirror, Elle had cried out that she
appeared deformed and Julie hadn't understood her
reference to the Hunchback of Notre Dame's
hump slipping to her behind.
  It truly was absurd. Women were wearing padding
and steel and bone hoops to bring attention to their
derrieres by making them appear larger and more rounded.
Back in 1991, women were sweating in gyms and
courting asphyxiation in aerobics to trim those
same fannies. It made no sense. Men never
truly had a definition of the perfect male and were
free to be themselves. Women, on the other hand, were
constantly being told by others what was currently
appealing to the opposite sex. And it always
changed. In her own time she could remember her
girlfriends laughing about ads to increase one's bust
size, because lush curves and fullness were in.
Next followed a period when women were told they
should look like adolescent boys, with no breasts
or hips. Then, just when women reached the point of
nearly killing themselves to look like Twiggy, the
stupid ground rules changed again: it became
vogue to resemble a man, to bulk up and build
muscles that would make Arnold Schwarzenegger
drool.
  What's wrong with us, anyway? she wondered.
Why do we continually, throughout the centuries, allow
others to define us, and deform us, all in the name of
fashion? How long will it take before we are
comfortable with our bodies, however God created us?
  She breathed a long, drawn-out sigh, knowing that
her inner turmoil was caused more by her own
frustration than anything else.
  "I think you look beautiful, Miss Elle.
If only you wouldn't scowl so. My momma used
to say your face could stay like that." Julie smiled
shyly.
  Elle grinned. "I think all mothers use that
line. I know mine did." She looked at herself
in the mirror and again pushed down on the contraption
at her rear. The white silk shot back
into place when she removed her hand. "It's just this
bustle. It looks so ridiculous."
  "Oh, no," Julie quickly added. "Not at
all. Didn't you see the fashion books in
Miss Chatwin's? She said it was the latest
rage. Though I don't think she understood when you
laughed."
  "Well, I'm not laughing now."
  "Oh, please. Truly, you look lovely."
  Elle critically examined her reflection.
If it wasn't for the bustle, she might have been
pleased. She had Frenchbraided the top of her
hair and Julie had wound a thin white satin
ribbon through it, letting the long ends trail down
to her shoulders. She didn't wear any makeup,
yet found that her cheeks were flushed from the heat of
her bath and the warmth of the evening. Her eyes looked
bright despite the lack of eyeliner and mascara.
  She had to admit it. She didn't look one
bit glamorous. She looked ... healthy.
  "Don't you think we should be going now?"
Julie interrupted, nervously smoothing down the
skirt of her gown.
  Forgetting her own misgivings, Elle smiled.
"Are you excited?"
  Julie breathed deeply. "Oh, Miss
Elle, I'm more scared than anything else. Just
look at me, at this dress. I never had
anything this fine before. I only went to play
parties and square dances at someone's house out on
the prairie. And I never actually danced. Not
really. Except with somebody else's daddy. Not
mine, not ever." Elle could see her chewing at the
inside of her lip. "I mostly watched the young
ones while everybody else was going
four-hands-round and do-si-doing. And I've never
been to anything in a town before, let alone a real
dance. What if I make a fool out of myself?"
She looked ready to cry.
  Immediately Elle felt selfish. Here she had
been thinking only about herself when this child was filled with
teenage insecurity. She put an arm around
Julie's slender shoulders.
  "Okay, now listen to me. You don't have
to worry about making a fool of yourself. For one thing,
you're not wearing this damn bustle." Seeing the
girl smile, she continued, "Julie, you look
beautiful. I was skinny and gawky at your age,
yet you seem to have bypassed all that and blossomed
into a young woman ... a lovely young woman. Just
remember who you are today. Not who you were. And
remember everything you've gone through to get here.
You're strong. You're a survivor. Someday
all of this isn't going to be anything more than a
memory. Let's make it a good one, all
right?"
  She squeezed her shoulder and planted a
small kiss on Julie's temple.
"I promise you. There isn't going to be anyone
at that dance tonight that's better than you, even if they
do live in a town. But you have to believe it,
too."
  Julie didn't look up right away. When
she did, her eyes were filled with tears. "What
about tomorrow? About the orphanage? Are you going
to leave us?"
  A tight knot formed in Elle's stomach.
Here was the question, the very subject, that she had been
dreading and putting off. How like a child to confront it
when the adult hides. Now who was the more
grown-up?
  She inhaled deeply to steady her voice. "I
honestly don't know, Julie. We haven't
even seen the place yet. But you know neither
Jordan, nor I, would ever place you or
Cory anywhere unless it was perfect. I
promised you that in the beginning and I won't go
back on it." She hugged the girl to her chest.
"Try not to think of it tonight, okay? If it isn't
acceptable, we'll just keep right on going until
we find a place that is."
  Julie sniffled. "I don't want to leave
you."
  Elle's heart nearly broke and she tightened
her hold on the child. "I know," she breathed against
the blond curls. "I know ..."

  "Oh, I'm so sorry! Please, excuse
me!"
  If she repeated those words just one more time tonight,
Elle swore she was going to scream. Grinding her
teeth, she bent down to pick up the three
pieces of chicken that had fallen to the ground--or,
more precisely, that the damn bustle had knocked
to the ground. Holding them in her hand, she wasn't quite
sure what to do with the dirt-encrusted food.
  "Here, let me."
  She looked up at Jordan and sighed before
handing over the ruined chicken. "I'm sorry;
I'm so awkward." She almost choked on her
words. Dear God, she was all elbows and
knees, as clumsy as an adolescent. First the
flowers in the hotel room. Then when they had met
in the small lobby, and she had seen that Jordan
had shaved off his beard, she was so startled that she'd
actually backed up into a small bowl of
goldfish and knocked it over. Never would she
forget the sight of those tiny, hopping fish
and Jordan, Cory and Kyle joining all the
others as they scrambled to catch the quick flash of
fins and bright orange scales. Just to complete the
picture of simpleton, once they had arrived
at the outdoor party, her rear end had collided
with more objects than a bumper car at Coney
Island. It was humiliating. She had even tried
to sit down, feeling that if she stayed put she
couldn't harm anyone. But that, too, had proved
to be a fiasco. She had nearly crippled herself
by sitting down incorrectly when a steel rod from
the damned bustle had practically sliced her
tailbone in two. She never wanted to remember
her howl of pain, or how she had shot out of the
chair and into Jordan's arms.
  She was right in thinking this night was turning into a
disaster, she thought miserably while watching
Jordan hand over the chicken to a woman behind the
table. The young lady almost gushed as she took the
mess from his hands.
  That was another thing.
  Was there a woman in this town that did not intend
to flirt with Jordan McCabe? Good God, you
would think they hadn't seen an attractive man
in years. It didn't help that he had enhanced his
image by becoming a hero this afternoon. Oh, he'd
tried to play it down. She would give him that.
But, really ...
  Just how many women did he intend to encourage?
Okay, so she couldn't actually see him
encouraging them, but come on ... women just didn't
act like this without invitation. He was just sly. Or
maybe they were desperate, or bored, or--damn
it. Why did he have to look so handsome in his suit?
A real suit! Well, it was almost a suit. The
dark gray jacket over new denim jeans
looked better on him than a Bill Blass.
The crisp white shirt only highlighted his
tanned face and blue eyes. And that thing he
wore at his neck? She had the irrational urge
to pull that chunk of turquoise down those leather
strings and unbutton his shirt.
  It was crazy. Totally unreal.
  It was also wonderful.
  She hadn't felt this attracted to a man in a
very long time.
  "Oh, Mr. McCabe, I just had to tell you
how much I admired your riding this afternoon." A
pretty young woman batted her eyelashes while
flirting with him. They came out of nowhere.
All day long, these women in all shapes and
sizes have been trying to engage Jordan in
conversation. "It was such a heroic thing to do. My
heart"--and she touched her chest, just in case
Jordan had forgotten where that vital organ was
located--"nearly stopped when young Amy ran out
into that street."
  Elle ground her back teeth together. Didn't
everyone think they were married? What was this? Sadie
Hawkins Day, or something? Unless Jordan had
told them differently, they were a couple, a
married couple.
  "Thank you," he said to the woman. "Truly,
it was nothing."
  As the woman argued prettily, Elle
mentally mimicked his words truly, it was
nothing. She felt like a teenager and wanted
to say it aloud, but thought better of it. She was
supposed to be an adult. Looking out to the
dancers, she tapped her foot in time to the music.
Julie and Kyle were standing together off to one side
of the musicians. To anyone else they merely
looked like they were enjoying each other's company.
Elle knew better. Julie was falling in
love with the young cowboy, and by all appearances, that
feeling was amply returned. She could see it in
the teenagers' expressions. For a brief moment,
she wondered if she should do something about it. After
all, Julie was only fourteen and Kyle
merely two years older. Then she thought better
of it. Let Julie have this night. The girl
deserved it, and more. Who knew what tomorrow would bring
for any of them ... especially Julie and
Cory.
  "Are you sure you don't want to dance?" he
asked again as another reel was announced.
  She shook her head, while watching Julie and
Kyle take their place along with the other dancers.
Julie had no need to worry about her dancing
ability, Elle thought. She hadn't sat out
once. No sooner had they arrived when Kyle
whisked Julie off to the dancing area. Elle
smiled. She was glad it had turned out so well
for Julie. Now, if only the same could be said
for her brother.
  Elle glanced over to the area set aside for the
younger children. Cory was sitting on a bale of hay,
appearing content to pet Noah and look over the
festivities. He didn't talk to those around him

  "Is something wrong? You aren't upset about
anything, are you?"
  Elle blinked, as if she hadn't noticed
all the attention women were showering on Jordan.
"Oh, is your friend gone?" she asked while
looking around her.
  "Yes, she's gone. And I wouldn't exactly
call her my friend."
  Elle smiled brilliantly. "This is such a
friendly town, isn't it?" She couldn't keep the
sarcasm out of her voice.
  Jordan scowled. "Are you sure you don't
want to dance?" he asked for the third time. "You
seem ... I don't know, out of sorts."
  "Out of sorts? I guess you could say that.
I'm so clumsy tonight I think I'm safer just
standing here. Thank you for asking, though." She gazed
into the faces of several women who were eying
Jordan. "But don't let me stop you from
enjoying yourself," she said casually, as if the thought of
him dancing with another didn't create a sick
feeling in her middle.
  "No, that's all right," he murmured, bringing
the glass of beer up to his mouth. A light
frothing of foam stayed on his mustache and he
wiped it away with the back of his hand. "I just thought
you might want to."
  Now that the beard was gone, his chin looked lighter
than the rest of his face. She wanted, God, for
just a moment, she wanted to run her finger over the
slight cleft in his chin, to feel the texture of
his skin ...
  "With all the excitement back at the hotel,
I don't think I ever told you how pretty you
look." He smiled at her and Elle felt her
stomach muscles tighten in response.
  Chills ran up and down the backs of her
arms, making her shiver even though the night was
warm. No one had ever called her pretty. She
had been called lovely, striking, even
beautiful by a slightly drunk stockbroker. But
never pretty. Pretty was something that had been
denied to her as a teenager. When it appeared that
everyone else had steady boyfriends and dates
to proms, Elle remembered the pain of lonely,
solitary weekends. But now ... someone was
looking at her and making her feel like she was
eighteen again.
  And pretty.
  God, please don't let this
happen to me. Not now ... I can't afford to be
hurt again. Someone always gets hurt in these things
and it can't be me. She had to think of the children, of
finding them a home. And then she would be taken
back to her own time. If there was a man in her
future, he certainly wasn't an
ex-Confederate soldier making his way back
home to Texas with a herd of cattle. He
wouldn't have eyes the color of the evening sky, nor
hair, thick and slicked back, just waiting for a
woman to run her fingers through ...
  "And now," she vaguely heard a loud voice
announce as if from far away, "I believe we
would all be honored to have Mr. Jordan
McCabe and his lovely wife lead us off in our
first waltz of the evening. Besides, once he does,
a few of us bachelors can then claim a dance."
There was a round of applause as people seemed
to converge around them.
  Startled, Elle looked up into Jordan's
face and saw his embarrassed smile. "I swear
I didn't know anything about this."
  His arm slid around her waist and she almost
jumped at the touch. She had a moment of near
panic, certain that he was too tall for her,
sure it would be a clumsy, ungraceful match.
  But she was wrong. Oh, God, was she wrong
...
  They fit together perfectly. Tall and short.
Hard muscles and soft femininity. Somehow, it
felt natural and right, almost as if she belonged
there.
  I will not be hurt she silently repeated,
nearly mesmerized by the fluid, swaying motion, the
graceful melody, the feel of his arm around her,
steady and firm, yet gentle. Protect
yourself, Elle. The warning echoed in her brain.
  She wanted to ignore it. How long had it
been since she was with a man? How long since she
was able to enjoy the touch of a man's hand as it held
her waist? The texture of hard muscles under
her fingers? The clean scent of a man ... what was
that? Vanilla? She deeply inhaled as
Jordan spun her in time to the romantic
music. And it was romantic, despite the fact
that the waltz was being played by four men with guitars
and fiddles. To her ears the fiddles sounded like
Stradivarius violins. Soon others joined
them, but she hardly noticed. She kept staring at
Jordan, not quite sure what was happening.
  Be careful, Elle, the voice inside her
repeated. Enjoy him, but you must protect yourself.
The survivor in her rose to the surface and she
thought, If anything happens between us, it will have
to be him that gets hurt. She wouldn't allow
anything else. And, yet, she didn't want him
disillusioned either. She didn't know what she
wanted ... except at that moment she wanted
to stay in his arms.
  "You dance very well," he complimented her, swinging
her in a wide circle.
  "So do you," she heard herself answering. With great
resolve Elle concentrated on him. She
turned off her conscience, tired of its nagging, for
she was really enjoying herself. She actually liked
waltzing. It was an old-fashioned dance, full
of grace and romance. Unlike modern slow
dancing, in the waltz one was forced to look at their
partner's face. And the face told so much about a
person. Like Jordan ...
  He was staring at her, his blue eyes almost
flashing with good humor. Tiny wrinkles fanned out
from their edges, making him appear happy and
carefree. It was a new side to Jordan
McCabe. An admittedly attractive
side.
  "All those lessons my mother insisted I
take." He shook his head good-naturedly.
"Somehow, I never thought I'd be using them on the
Oklahoma frontier."
  She knew exactly what he meant. "Is
your mother in Texas?" she asked, glad that he was
in such a good mood.
  "My mother died during the war," he said
quietly.
  "Oh ..." Elle wrinkled her brow. The
war? The Civil War? "I'm sorry." She
wished she had never asked and was at a loss as
to how to resume their carefree discussion.
  "Did I tell you that Traver and the herd came
through Alexander three days ago?" He, too,
appeared to be searching for an alternative
topic.
  "Hey, that's great," she said brightly, a little
too brightly. She stumbled and Jordan righted her.
  "You okay?"
  She nodded and smiled at the hotel owner who was
steering an elderly woman in circles. Somehow
she didn't think he forgot about their dance. "I'm
not usually this clumsy," she said
to Jordan as they danced past the man. "It's this
damn bustle."
  He grinned, making the cleft in his chin
deeper. "I think it's delightful."
  She grunted. "Delightful? You only think
so because you don't have to wear it. It's ridiculous,
and damned uncomfortable--"
  "You have a charming way of speaking."
  She ignored his remark. "At least I'm
honest. I don't go around pretending that this
contraption isn't a male invention of torture."
  He threw back his head and laughed. Right out
loud. And then swung her even more into the swaying,
graceful movement of the waltz.
  She felt dizzy and it wasn't just from the
dancing. It was that malestfemale thing happening between
them. She'd gone through it enough in the past
to recognize it now. The attraction was real, and
it wasn't just one-sided.
  I won't be the one ..., she told herself.
I can't ...
  He held her more tightly and she almost
groaned. Dear God, had it really been more than
nine months since a man's arms were around her?
Almost a year of being alone. She was so tired of
being lonely. It didn't matter what Jordan
was offering; she probably wouldn't be here too much
longer anyway.
  What would it hurt? Did she always have to do the
right thing? Always think of the consequences? Why couldn't
she just enjoy the moment and let whatever was going
to happen, happen?
  The dance ended all too soon for her and she was
pleased to notice that Jordan also looked
disappointed.
  "Thank you, Elizabeth. I enjoyed that."
Looking into her eyes, he smiled. When they had
walked back to the tables, he handed her a glass
of cider and then did the most astonishing thing.
  He reached out and lightly untangled the ribbon
from her hair. His finger brushed her shoulder and
Elle inhaled at his touch. It was so gentle it
made her skin tingle. He allowed his finger
to brush over her collarbone and then cupped her chin
in his palm. "You're the most mysterious woman
I have ever known. Who are you, Elizabeth
Mackenzie?"
  Her breathing was actually labored. She was so
nervous that her voice cracked, yet there was nothing
she could do about it. "I ... I told
you. I come from the future. From nineteen--"
  His finger on her lips stopped her words.
"Please. Just for tonight. Don't ..."
  She almost kissed his finger, but stopped herself just in
time. Instead, she raised her chin so his finger
slipped down. She smiled, deep and
seductive. "Just for tonight," she repeated his words,
"I can be anyone you want."
  She knew her gaze was as provocative as
her words, yet she couldn't stop. And, in truth,
she didn't want to, for when she spoke again it
was in an urgent whisper. "Who would you like me
to be, Jordan?"
  He groaned as he pulled her into his arms.
Strong, secure arms, that seemed to almost hunger
for her. He leaned down, his mouth mere inches
away from hers. She could smell the beer and the
vanilla and the cigar he'd had earlier. He was
all male as he breathed the words right back into her
mouth.
  "Just be you, Elizabeth. That's more than enough."
  And then he did it. Right there in front of the
mayor and the hotel owner and Cory and Julie and
Kyle and every one of those women who had been
flirting with him all evening.
  He kissed her.
               * * *
  She would never sleep. She'd been listening
to Jordan and Kyle on the other side of the
blanket wall that separated the beds. It just
wouldn't happen. Julie, filled with homecooking
and dreams of Kyle Reavis, was sound asleep
next to her. But sleep eluded Elle like a
nighttime fugitive.
  She could still feel his kiss, the hunger of his
mouth as it tasted her--first tentatively, gently,
then with a longing that took her breath away. She
knew, should she ever try to explain, that it would sound
stupid, but her legs had grown weak. They had
felt like they were made out of pudding and she had
clung to his arms for more than support. She must
have looked like a wanton. But it had been so long.
And no one, not ever, had kissed her like that. There were
no games. Just male and female. And a wanting,
a craving, that shattered her composure. She
didn't know how she would ever be able to look at him
in the same way again.
  Thank God for the blanket that hung between them.
  Everyone had said good night over a half hour
ago and was settled in bed. It had been
a full day, filled with excitement, and no one
appreciated that more than Elle. She strained
to hear him breathe. Could he possibly have fallen
asleep that quickly? Wasn't he over on the other
side of that wool thinking about her? About their kiss?
The applause of the townsfolk that had followed?
Wasn't he picturing in his mind the way they had
danced again, and again? How they had both been
breathless with the exertion and yet eager to do it again so
they could once more touch and be in each other's arms?
  Can the male so easily turn off his mind
while the female plays it over and over, like an
old record, reliving each moment?
  Well, by the sounds emanating from the opposite
side of the room, it was evident that all three
males were asleep. Elle brought her fingers up
to her lips and lightly touched them. That kiss ...
it had done something inside of her that was frightening. It
had brought up possibilities, dreams,
fantasies about a future--
  Don't do it, Elle. You can't be the one
to get hurt. It can't be you this time. Protect
yourself, your heart ...
  When she finally fell asleep, she was repeating
those thoughts, like a mantra. It was her only
salvation.

  Morning came with a cool breeze that made her
shiver and curl into the covers for warmth, but it was no
use. Her brain had triggered the chilling
gooseflesh and Elle groaned before stretching.
Upon opening her eyes, she realized that she had to go
to the bathroom and that thought brought forth a moan. If
there was one thing she truly detested about this
misadventure it was the lack of modern
facilities. Well, she had two choices.
She could either use the chamberpot under the bed, or
throw on a robe and tiptoe out of the building to the
outhouse.
  There really wasn't much of a choice.
  Shivering, she wrapped Cynthia's robe around
her and slipped her feet into her shoes. She did
tiptoe in order not to wake anyone up and was doing
well until she passed the men's bed. She was
almost to the door. She didn't have to look. And it
would have saved her so much if she hadn't. But she was
female, and curiosity was, unfortunately,
part of the feminine gene pool.
  There he was. Asleep. With a muscled arm
around Cory's waist, cradling the child
against him. She saw Cory's little hand clutching
Jordan's thumb, as if for reassurance that the
adult was still there. She saw his shining blond
curls mixed with the dark masculine hair on
Jordan's chest, and something broke inside of
her. Something hard and protective shattered at the
sight of the grown man and the child--together, as if they
belonged to each other.
  Her body started to shake and she knew it
wasn't from the morning chill. And then she knew
... it was as if she heard it break away inside
of her and a sudden heat permeated her body, making
her warm and frightened at the same time. She wanted
him, this man who could be both commanding and tender, stern
yet funny, responsible, and yet sexy.
  It was happening ... the thing that she had feared.
As she hugged herself, the tears streamed down her
cheeks and fell onto her chest.
  Finally she could no longer deny it. She heard
it in her brain, felt it in her heart.
  Oh, God ... it's me. It's me.
I'm the one who's going to be hurt.


              Chapter 13

  Was it possible? Did she love him? Love
him? A cowboy from the nineteenth century?
C'mon, Elle, she chided herself. Why, you're
what is known in this time as a spinster. Unmarried.
Unloved. Very soon to be on the down side of
thirty.
  She mentally shook herself back to reality.
Blinking, Elle looked at the scene before her.
Was it possible, she wondered, that tomorrow was her
birthday? Was she really going to turn thirty in
1876? How could it be that this momentous occasion would
take place in this insanity? But then ... maybe
it wouldn't count. Maybe she could remain
twenty-nine. That was appealing. To be forever young.
Well, almost young--
  "I think it looks ... very nice. Don't
you?"
  Jordan's voice startled her. They were standing
in front of a large white Victorian home with
an honest-to-God picket fence around it.
Swings of long hemp rope and smooth, wooden
seats hung from a stately oak tree. They
actually swayed in the warm summer breeze, as
if happy children had just jumped off.
Talk about idyllic! The next thing she
expected to see was little munchkins popping up from
underneath the clusters of morning glories and verbena
and pointing them in the direction of the yellow brick
road.
  "Hmm ..." Elle reserved comment as she
stood before Miss Avoula Turner's
Guardianship. She gazed up to the scarlet
gingerbread trim and sighed. In spite of the cheerful
and inviting picture, she was disheartened. She
didn't care that the birds were singing in the morning
sunlight; it had to be too good to be true. As
she and Jordan led the children up the brick
walkway, Elle experienced another feeling of
dread. She was counting, truly counting, on finding
some fault with the woman, or at least the place--
some reasonable excuse to whisk Cory and Julie
away with her to the next town.
  Squeezing Julie's hand, Elle glanced at
Jordan as he knocked on the large wooden
door. He, too, seemed distracted and nervous.
Was he as suspicious as she of this perfect
setup? Somewhere, lurking behind this promising
exterior, might be a character right out of Dickens--a
stern taskmaster who would beat and berate and
extinguish the light inside each child. It had to be.
  But it wasn't ...
  Avoula Turner was the picture of a perfect
grandmother, so much so that Elle figured even
Barbara Bush would come in a poor second.
Tall, round, and applecheeked, Miss Turner
opened the front door and immediately knelt down in
front of Cory. Elle could see that her eyes
sparkled with friendliness and her smile was filled with
warmth.
  "Ahh ... now, I've been expecting you,"
she said to the child. She slowly looked up to the rest
of them and grinned. "I'm afraid everyone in
Alexander has had something to say about you, Mr.
McCabe. I don't suppose a hero gets
too much privacy."
  Visibly embarrassed, Jordan removed his
hat. "It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am.
Though I'm no hero," he added. "I keep
telling everyone I didn't--"
  Rising, Miss Turner held up her hand
to interrupt. "I commend your modesty, but I
wouldn't be surprised if by next year's
Founders' Day you'd become a legend. I
shouldn't have to tell you, Mr. McCabe,
how quickly a tale like this will spread."
  She looked at Elle and grinned. "It's one
of the endearing qualities of the West ... everything
is exaggerated. No one just stops a wagon, you
understand? The runaway team was spooked by a cougar
the size of a bear, who first was spooked by the
Indians that drove it out of the hills. In the end
the hero in the tale had to fight both man and beast
to save the day. Never mind that there aren't any
cougars in this part of Oklahoma. The Indians have
calmed down considerably and I haven't seen
any appreciable hills since I left
Ohio."
  As if just realizing how she had been chattering,
Miss Turner brought a lace-edged handkerchief
to her mouth and pressed it against her lips. She
clutched it tightly in her blue-veined hand and
shook her head. "Oh, my! I do go on
sometimes. Please, forgive me. It's my
addiction, if you will, to Penny Dreadfuls. I've
just finished the new Fess Tyson. Passion's
Price. I think it's his best yet. Or should
I say her? Rumor has it that he's really a
she."
  She looked at Elle, as if Elle should have
recognized the name of the author. Feeling somehow
illiterate, Elle nodded stupidly as the
woman continued speaking.
  "Forgive me for getting carried away, talking
about my books, but that isn't why you're all
visiting me this morning, is it?" she added
quietly. Her smile included Julie and
Cory.
  Somehow, maybe through town gossip, Miss
Turner knew why they had shown up on her
doorstep. Everyone knew. Even the children. But no
one wanted to say it. It was a tense moment as
Elle looked at Jordan, for it was clear neither
of them wanted to speak. Finally, Jordan shook
his head.
  "No, it isn't, Miss Turner.
Unfortunately, our reason for being here is a
bit more serious." He glanced at Cory and
hesitated for just a moment. "The children need a
home." His voice sounded rough and Elle quickly
took over.
  "Miss Turner. This is Cory and Julie
Woodson. Their parents have ..." her voice
trailed off, hoping she wasn't going to have to fill
in the details right away.
  Tucking the handkerchief into her waistband, Miss
Turner nodded sympathetically. She held out her
hand to Julie and smiled. "I'm glad to meet
you," she said in a friendly voice and then lightly
touched Cory's cheek. "And this young man, too.
I saw you both at the dance last night. What was
that creature I saw making itself at home in your
jacket pocket? A mouse?"
  She waited for Cory to answer and in the silence
that followed glanced up at Elle.
  "Noah," Elle said. She smiled. "It's
Cory's pet. He's really no problem," she
added, as if she could bear to part with Cory, or
Julie, or Noah for that matter. What the
hell were they doing here, anyway? Did she really
think she could walk away from them and leave them here?
This place had to be too good to be true. What
were the odds, that out in the middle of nowhere, they would
find the ideal solution to their problem? An
orphanage? In a border town between Oklahoma
and Texas?
  "Please, come in," Miss Turner invited
and waved them into her house.
  Elle told herself that she was only going along
with this to be polite. Sure Miss Turner
appeared perfect, and Elle wasn't ready
to voice her misgivings aloud, but she couldn't
believe the time had come to make a decision about
leaving the children. It was too soon, too--
  "Wow ..." Julie's exclamation interrupted
her thoughts and for the first time Elle really paid attention
to her surroundings.
  The five of them were standing in the foyer looking
into the most unusual room Elle had ever seen.
It really was like going back in time ...
  The hardwood floors shone in the morning
sunlight that came in through the long paned windows.
Everything smelled of fresh air and beeswax.
Sitting on marble-topped tables were glass domes
with pink wax roses, albums, stuffed birds and
figurines. Peacock feathers were anchored behind a
wall picture of an elderly gentleman who
looked down on the sitting room with a benign
smile. A paisley scarf with pale green
tassels and fringe was draped over a piano, and
numerous daguerreotypes and tin prints of children were
scattered about. Lightweight rice rugs for
summer lay under the velvet-cut damask
furniture. The high ceiling was plastered with a
center medallion of ornately pressed
tin. It was too busy for Elle's taste, but she
knew it was quite a showplace for this period of time.
  "How lovely." She couldn't help
expressing her admiration.
  "It's beautiful," Julie breathed in awe.
  Miss Turner stopped and looked over the
room, as if she hadn't seen it in a long time.
"Thank you. I brought almost everything with me from
Ohio. It wasn't easy, as I'm sure you
know, Mr. McCabe." She looked at the
portrait on the far wall and smiled. "Several
times, my Arthur was ready to leave me and my
treasures on the plains. But he persevered,
God bless his soul. I'm only sorry he
didn't live long enough to see this house filled with
children."
  She took a deep breath, as though to wipe out
the sad memory and motioned to the back of the house.
"And speaking of children--there are a few in the kitchen
that I'm sure would love to meet Cory and
Julie. Perhaps you and your wife would join me for
some coffee, Mr. McCabe?"
  Jordan quickly glanced at Elle and then
nodded to Miss Turner. "Thank you, ma'am."
Elle noticed that Jordan didn't correct
the woman. He was allowing her to think they were
married.
  Miss Turner led them down a narrow
hallway and into a bright, sunny kitchen, and it was
then that Elle first knew she was defeated.
  Eight children ranging in age from around three
to Julie's age were working in the kitchen. They
appeared to be cleaning up after breakfast--washing and
drying dishes, sweeping the planked floor. When
they noticed the visitors, they all stopped what
they were doing and stared, obviously very curious.
Five young girls were dressed alike in dark
blue jumpers and crisp, white pinafores. Their
hair was parted in the middle and braided into long
plaits that hung below their shoulders. The boys, the
smallest younger than Cory, wore white shirts
and dark trousers. The older ones had suspenders,
as if that marked them as mature. To Elle, they
looked like uniformed students in a private
school.
  Just as she was thinking they were probably too
scared to move, that Miss Turner had them
terrorized, a chubby, red-haired boy
announced, "I don't care, Miss Turner,
I'm not giving up my bed again."
  The other children looked shocked and then laughed
nervously as Avoula Turner brushed past her
visitors and came into the kitchen. She went up
to the child and tousled his hair in a show of affection.
"Nobody even asked you, Peter Burnham, so
I'd be minding that smart tongue of yours, if I
were you."
  She grinned at the others. "This is Mr. and
Mrs. Jordan McCabe and their friends ... and
our new friends, Cory and Julie Woodson."
  The children eyed each other, the girls definitely
more open in their inspection than the boys. Since
Cory barely glanced at any of them, it was
Julie who asked the first question.
  "Do ..." she swallowed a few times before she
could continue. "Do they all live here?" she asked
shyly.
  Miss Turner nodded. "They share rooms.
The boys have their own and so do the girls. Although it
could get to be too crowded and the older girls
might have to start a new room soon. That's something
we'll have to talk about."
  Nodding, Julie clasped her hands in front
of her and looked down to the floor.
  "Would you like to know anything, Cory?"
  There was a moment of awkward silence as Miss
Turner glanced questioningly from the boy, who stared
straight ahead, then to Elle. Elle shook her
head, indicating the child didn't speak. Smiling
sadly and with understanding, Miss Turner took a
deep breath and smoothly announced, "Well,
while you children finish your chores, I promised
Mr. and Mrs. McCabe a cup of coffee.
Do you think Julie and Cory would like to help us
make the ice cream later?"
  She turned to Elle and Jordan. "Every
Saturday we reward ourselves. Sometimes our arms
get so tired from churning, but we take turns and
it's always worth it."
  "I haven't had ice cream since before the
war," Jordan said wi/lly, to no one in
particular.
  "Then that settles it," Miss Turner
proclaimed. "All of you must spend the day with us.
We'll all get to know each other a little better
and Mr. McCabe will have a long-deserved
treat." She turned to the children. "Won't that be
nice?" she asked. "Look at all the extra
arms. We might be savoring the ice cream before
dinner."

  She had never experienced anything like it before.
  It was hard to describe. The texture,
creaminess and taste were definitely different from
Good Humor. Even the mighty Ha@agen-Dazs
would kill for Miss Avoula Turner's secret
ice cream recipe. Maybe it was the absence of
stabilizers and preservatives. And then again it
could be those hours of hand churning that made the
anticipation even sweeter and more rich than any
modern delicacy.
  Elle closed her eyes for just a moment
to appreciate the taste. It was wonderful ... just
like everything about Miss Turner and her
Guardianship, and that thought made Elle open her
eyes and look beyond the porch to the scene being played
out in front of her.
  Julie and Lillian, the oldest of the girls
at the orphanage, were sitting on the swings and
talking, while slowly eating their ice cream.
Peter and Joshua and Martin had almost inhaled their
serving and were now kneeling in the dirt, playing
marbles, while Cory sat off to the side,
watching. Milly, the youngest, was curling up on
Miss Turner's lap for a nap; her head already
nodding toward the woman's ample chest. The other
girls sat with their dolls under the oak tree in
an age-old feminine ritual. It was peaceful
and easy ... the kind of life she would have loved
herself.
  It was also time to admit it.
  She would never find a better place for
Julie and Cory.
  Although he was seated next to her on the porch,
Elle avoided looking at Jordan. She
knew he was waiting for her to make the decision.
Yet how could she do it? How could she leave the
children?
  "What about education?" Elle asked in a
last-ditch effort to find some excuse. "I know you
teach school here in Alexander, but what if one of
them is really talented? How would they further their
education?"
  "Are you talking about going on to a university?"
Miss Turner asked in a whisper as she gently
stroked the sleeping child's hair.
  Elle nodded.
  "Well, I'm not a wealthy woman, you
understand, but I do have a few connections back in
Ohio. Joshua is a talented
artist." The old woman looked out to her children and
sighed deeply. "Of course there's not a large
calling for an artist out here. But if Joshua could
earn a scholarship, then I would do anything in my
power to help him ... or any of them. Every once
in a while, we receive a donation from a benefactor
that's heard of us from one source or another. And
we make do in between times."
  Jordan cleared his throat. "If we did
leave Cory and Julie, I would like to provide
for them on a yearly basis as long as I'm
able."
  Miss Turner smiled. "I would be most
grateful, sir, for any help."
  "We're the ones that would be grateful, Miss
Turner," he answered. "You're doing a fine
thing here."
  There was a prolonged moment of silence until
Jordan added jokingly, "And you make better
ice cream than Aunt Celia. I didn't
think it was possible."
  Miss Turner laughed softly. "Where are you
from, Mr. McCabe? Originally?"
  "Georgia, ma'am."
  "I could detect something of the southern gentleman
in you, sir, beyond the Texas rancher. I would
imagine leading a cattle drive clear through
three states is far different than the life you
left behind in Georgia."
  Jordan looked out beyond the children to the horizon.
"There was nothing left for me, ma'am, to miss.
I've made a new home in Texas and it
suits me fine."
  Miss Turner nodded. "I'm sure it
does, Mr. McCabe. Now, if you'd assist
me in rising, I think I should put Milly down
for her nap."
  Jordan immediately stood up and helped the
woman to her feet. She refused his offer to carry
the child and told them she would return in a few
minutes. Elle waited until Miss Turner
had gone back into the house before speaking.
  "What were you doing?" she demanded.
  He sat down in his chair and stared at her.
"What? What's wrong?"
  "I'm the one that's supposed to make the
decision--"
  "I know," he shot back. "But you're
interrogating her, Elizabeth. Maybe you forget
that she would be doing us a favor by taking
Julie and Cory. This place is great. The children
would receive everything you've been worried about, and more.
You act like we'd be doing her a favor if we
left them."
  Elle felt a burning behind her eyes and she
dug her fingernails into her palm to stop the tears
from coming. "We would be doing her a favor," she
said in a thick voice. "They're terrific
kids."
  Jordan looked out to the boys and their game of
marbles. "I know," he admitted.
  "Well, I don't know if I can do it,"
Elle muttered. "She would see them grow up--
all those things that parents do. All those things
I'll never do ..."
  He turned to her and she bit her bottom lip
to keep it from trembling.
  "Elizabeth. We have to make a decision.
Look, I know it's supposed to be up to you, but
I think I deserve a say in this too."
  Elle couldn't speak. She was so afraid of
what he was going to say, and she knew she wouldn't
have any arguments, any rebuttal, for the answer was
clear. She was just frightened because it meant everything was
going to change.
  And she wasn't sure any more of what she
wanted.
  "All right," she finally said. "What is it you
have to say?"
  He took a deep breath and said it. "I think
they should stay. Look," he hurried to explain,
"neither one of us can offer them a stable environment and
children need stability. Miss Turner can do that. You
have to admit, you're never going to find a better
place for them. Once we leave here, we're
into Texas and there's not another town that even comes
close to this for more than a hundred miles. And
certainly not one with an orphanage. The thing is,
Elizabeth, you have to do this for Cory and Julie.
And not for you."
  There it was. The truth. Plain and simple and
painful.
  She looked down to the empty fluted bowl in
her hands. A fat tear slid down her cheek and
she nodded. "You're right," she whispered and stopped
speaking when her voice cracked with emotion.
  He reached out and squeezed her hand. "I know
it's not going to be easy, but I can't think of one
reason for them not to stay. Can you?"
  I love them, she wanted
to scream. The same as I love you. But she
couldn't say that. Instead, she shook her head.
She had made her pact with God. She'd done
her job and found the right home for the children. Her task
was nearly complete. And then she would be taken from this
time, from the children. And from Jordan.
  Why didn't that make her happy? Wasn't
that what she wanted?
  She certainly didn't want this cowboy and his
herd of animals. She wanted that faceless man
of her dreams in a three-piece suit and
BMW, and a house in the suburbs. Isn't that
what every woman wanted? Isn't it?
  Somehow, none of that mattered to Elle any
longer. She'd already made her peace with life and
her past mistakes. Marriage was out. Children were
out. All she'd had was her career, and her
success.
  Now, in this time, if she left Cory and
Julie, she would have nothing.
  "Elizabeth?" He said her name softly,
gently.
  She looked at him then. How could she have ever
thought he looked like Mel Gibson? His face was
more weathered, more mature. Whatever his life had
been like up until now, it hadn't been easy.
He had the look of a survivor and at times she
had caught a haunted expression on his face,
almost as if he carried his own ghosts along with him.
But he was a good man. That much she did know. He
didn't have to cart her and kids across two states
until they found this place. But he'd done it
without too much complaining. And she knew it would cost
him something to leave Cory. As much as he wanted
the world to see the toughened cowboy, Jordan
Dillon McCabe had allowed that small child
into his heart. It wasn't going to be easy for
either of them.
  What would she do once the children were gone? There would
be no reason to stay with him. If she wasn't
taken back to her own time, she would be all alone.
  The thought terrified her.
  He repeated her name. "Elizabeth?"
  She swallowed down the lump in her throat and
nodded. "All right," she finally said. "Let's
tell them and be done with it."
  Even though her heart was broken, she knew she
didn't have any other choice.
  Okay, I'm doing it. Now you'd better
give me the right words to say to them. You'd
better make this right, or so help me I'll
... She stopped and sniffled. What could you say
to threaten God? Well, you'd just better do it.
That's all.

  "Oh, Miss Elle, don't go!" Julie
threw her arms around Elizabeth, and Jordan
watched as they hugged each other. He didn't know
who looked more distraught--the woman or the child.
  In truth, he was probably just as upset as
both. He'd foolishly allowed himself to become
attached to them--this woman who had deceived him and
shamed him in front of his men and countered just about every
order he gave. And the children--Julie, standing on the
brink of womanhood, sweet, shy, and
obviously thinking herself in love with young Kyle.
She would probably recover ... but Cory? A
tight knot formed in his chest when he looked at the
boy.
  How in the world could he leave Cory?
  Kneeling down in front of him, Jordan
placed his hand on the small shoulder. "You understand,
don't you?" he asked the child. Not expecting an
answer, Jordan continued, "If there was any
other way, we wouldn't do this. But this is a fine
place. You can see that. There's boys here for you
to play withand Miss Turner will see that you go
to school with them, so it won't be all that scary for
you. You'll make friends and pretty soon you'll
forget all about us--"
  "Well, I'll never forget," Julie
protested. "Nobody can make us stay."
  Elizabeth hugged the girl more tightly to her
chest. "Stop it, Julie. We're all
upset." She placed a soft kiss on her
cheek and brushed back a wisp of blond hair.
"But listen ... remember how you were frightened of coming
into town back in Kansas? Remember when you
thought you weren't good enough? Well, now you know you
are. You'll live here in town and make friends--"
  "But we have you and the Captain, and ... and
Kyle. Why can't we just go on the way we
were?" she demanded between sobs.
  Elizabeth pulled back from her so she could
see the girl's face. "Look at me,
Julie. I don't know where I'm going to be
tomorrow, let alone next week, or the week after
that. You and Cory need a home. I can't give
that to you. I don't have one myself." She looked
around to the empty yard. "Have you ever seen
anything better than this? I would have loved to grow
up in a place like this. You'll be protected here.
It's hard now, I know. It's hard for all of
us, but I promise you, you'll do fine. And
we'll write. Won't we, Jordan?"
  He nodded; his throat was too raw to speak.
  "You see," she continued, though he could hear her
voice breaking, "we'll keep in touch and if the
situation ever changes, one of us will be here.
Okay?"
  Julie couldn't answer. She hugged her thin
waist and stared out beyond the yard. Elizabeth reached
down and picked up Cory. She wrapped her
arms around the child and held him to her chest.
  "What do I say to you?" she whispered into his
hair.
  When he saw the tears streaming down her
cheeks, Jordan had to turn away. He
couldn't look at her heartbreak, for it mirrored
his own. He tried not to hear her as she poured out
her love for the child, wanting Cory to remember them,
to be a good boy, and how she knew he would grow
into a fine man.
  It was too painful to watch and yet he knew the
time had come. For everyone's sake, they must leave.
  He hugged Julie, like an older brother, or
even a father. God, he hadn't expected it to be
this hard. "I'll send Kyle with your things, so you
can say goodbye. All right? Miss Turner knows
how to reach me if anything goes wrong, but I know
it won't. You'll be okay, Julie. When you
stop hurting, when you get used to things here, you'll
admit it was the only thing to do."
  He placed a kiss on her damp forehead and
waited for Elizabeth to hand over Cory.
  He could do it. He told himself, he'd been
through worse in battle. This was simple. There were
no open wounds or gore, or hopelessness. This was
only pain of the heart. Surely, this had to be
easier ... yet when the child's body was next
to his, he almost lost it. He felt his arms
tighten around the small rib cage and had to stop
himself from hurting the child in his embrace. There were no
words he could say. And, anyway, he and Cory
hadn't needed words. Somehow they had known what the
other was thinking. Cory would know now that he would
miss him. That he ... that he cared about him ...
loved him.
  Cory would know. He would feel it, just as
Jordan could feel the child's tiny hands
tightening at his neck.
  "Jordan?"
  Elizabeth's voice was uncertain as she
called out his name. When she whispered, "Look at
him ... Jordan, look!" he pulled away from
Cory and stared at the child.
  Huge, fat tears rolled down his freckled
cheeks. His tiny chin was quivering with uncertainty
and his eyes ... his eyes held a mixture of
recognition and despair.
  "Jordan, this is the first reaction he's had
since Kansas. Look, he's crying ..."
Elizabeth had to wipe away her own tears
to speak.
  "Because we're leaving," Jordan finished, and
glanced up to the porch where Miss Turner
waited.
  It only took a moment for such a monumental
decision. He turned to Elizabeth and said, "I
can't do it. I know this is the perfect place, but
is it the right one? What would happen if we leave
him now?"
  Elizabeth was nodding a little wildly. "I
know. I know," she chanted. He could see she was
biting her bottom lip to keep from grinning. "He
could completely close himself off, become a
zombie."
  "A what?"
  She shook her head. "It doesn't matter,"
she cried happily and hugged Julie. As all
four embraced, Elizabeth shouted over their
heads, "I'm sorry, Miss Turner, but
we're about to follow the yellow brick road
..."
  Everyone looked at her for an explanation, but
she only threw back her head and laughed.
Jordan caught his breath as he stared at her.
Her face was flushed with emotion, her amber eyes
sparkled with happiness. She was beautiful, but she
was so much more than that. It went beyond the physical.
He was drawn to something else inside of her. She
possessed a gift for life, for living, that he
had thought no one any longer retained after the war.
It was as if she had never experienced that horror.
Life for her was so simple, so easy.
Elizabeth Mackenzie was the most
extraordinary woman he had ever known.
  And it was then, watching her giggle with the children, that
Jordan first felt he might be falling in
love.

              Chapter 14

  Texas. The name conjured up images of every
cowboy movie she had ever seen. But this, this
particular morning, was different. In sharp contrast
to the plains with its blistering heat, ungratified
thirst, the hunger and physical exhaustion; the
crude wooden crosses that marked the resting
place of those who never completed their journey ...
there was another side to this wild and beautiful land.
And on the morning of her thirtieth birthday,
Elizabeth Mackenzie held her breath in awe
as she watched the sun rise over the horizon.
  The prairie was covered with lush grass and
dotted with larkspur, asters, goldenrod and
geraniums. She knew they would soon pass out of
this exquisite valley into the more arid part of the
state, yet for the moment, she considered this her gift
from God. Her own personal, living and breathing,
birthday card. She grinned as she watched a
mockingbird fly overhead and perch on the branch
of a flowering bush.
  It was almost paradise.
  Quietly, Elle realized she had rarely
appreciated nature before. She had, in truth,
taken it for granted. She'd been too busy
trying to "make it"--whatever the current standing of
making it was. And she'd missed this. For thirty
years she had never really stopped, and looked.
  The quiet brilliance demanded a response.
  Okay, thanks for today, she silently
prayed and glanced to Jordan and the sleeping children.
And thanks for them, too. I don't know.
Miss Turner's just wasn't the right place.
If it was, you wouldn't have let Jordan change
his mind, would you? She didn't expect an
answer, or even the bird to move as a sign, so
she just continued, So ... I guess you aren't
about to take me back to my own time just yet, huh?
Not until I fulfill my part of the bargain.
If that's so, then why am I always thinking about my
mother? If you're not taking me back, then why do
I feel like she's in trouble? That she needs me?
  Elle deeply inhaled the sweet morning air
and closed her eyes. Again, the picture of her
mother's face haunted her. She didn't even
need the mirror any longer. Now she would see
Margaret Mackenzie's tortured image at
will. The graying hair. The lined face.
The sad eyes of a defeated woman. Had they ever
held hope and promise? It was scary and
frustrating, for there was nothing she could do to help the
one woman she loved.
  She shook her head to drive out the frightening
thoughts. Today, thirty years ago, in another
century, Margie Curran Mackenzie gave
birth to her and now she was certain her mother was in
trouble. Elle was positive it had something to do with
her father. He'd abused her mother for as long as she
could remember. Elle was fourteen the first time she
reported her father to the police, but he always came
back. And her mother took him back. It made
no sense. What hold did John Mackenzie
have over her mother?
  "You're awake?"
  Shaken out of her daydreams, Elle looked
to Jordan and smiled. "Couldn't sleep." She
gazed out to the valley and again inhaled. "It's
beautiful, isn't it?"
  Jordan sat up and ran a hand over his
face. He yawned and scratched the new growth of
beard on his chin before looking around him. "Sure
is a lot prettier than at dusk."
  She nodded in quiet agreement. For just a
moment they sat in silence. It was glorious, though
hushed, as if the world itself had not yet awakened. In
those moments, Elle truly felt at peace. It
was okay to turn thirty out in the wilderness, for no
superficial party with friends could possibly compare
with the grandeur that was displayed before her.
  She didn't care that her hair was tangled,
or that there was sleep in the corners of her eyes.
Somehow, it didn't matter that Jordan wasn't
seeing her at her best. The moment was special,
for she felt like she was discovering a hidden part of
herself and shedding the obsolete, those portions that were
no longer needed.
  She almost felt sorry for the old Elle, the
one that had strived so hard for success. Perhaps it was
her fear of being poor, like her father. It didn't
matter anymore--and that knowledge brought relief, a
freedom. For she knew that no matter what
happened in her future, she had learned something
here in the past.
  She looked at Jordan.
  She had learned about values.
               * * *
  "I'll tell you a secret," Elle said
to Julie as they drove out of the valley.
It was crazy how well she had learned to handle the
horse and wagon. She didn't even mind wearing
the huge leather gloves anymore.
  "What?" Julie asked eagerly. "Who's it
about?" She shielded her face from the sun with her
bonnet and grinned. Clearly, the girl loved the
idea of gossip.
  Flicking the reins over the horse's rump,
Elle laughed. "It's about me."
  "You?"
  She nodded. "Today's my birthday. I'm
thirty years old."
  "No ..." Julie's voice showed her
disbelief.
  It made Elle feel even better.
"Really, it's true. And I don't care who
knows it. A few weeks ago I wouldn't have
admitted that to anyone. Now, I'm proud of it."
  She took a deep breath. "I'm thirty
years old, and I'm here." She looked around the
countryside. "Wherever here is."
  Julie impulsively reached over and hugged
her. "Why, you're with us, Miss Elle. Just where
you should be."
  As impossible as it seemed, Elle's grin
widened. God, it was going to be a great day.

  By mid-afternoon, her arms were aching from guiding the
horse. She attempted to keep up her cheerful
mood, even though she was tired. But it wasn't
easy. In Alexander, Jordan had bought her a
hat. He and Julie had pointed out the wide
straw bonnets, but she had firmly shaken her
head. She had remembered the intense heat and had
picked up an expansive ten-gallon cowboy
hat, one that John Wayne would have been proud
to wear. It shaded her face, even her shoulders,
but her arms were still exposed to the punishing rays of the
sun. She was exhausted; her mind nearly
brain-dead from the endless routine. No one was even
bothering to talk anymore. So when she saw the
silhouette of a man and horse on the horizon,
she sat up and paid attention. She was about to call
out to Jordan when he rode up. He reached out and
slowed the wagon as the figure took shape.
  It was a man, in middle age.
  He looked pretty bad, as if he'd been
out on the trail for a long time. The closer he
came, the more Elle thought of the word straight. He
looked straight. A tall, thin,
powerful-looking man with a definite set to his
jaw. The only thing that threw the whole image out
of balance was the wad of chewing tobacco that bulged
in his left cheek and made a little white spot on
his tanned skin. His hat was low over his eyes,
yet Elle could sense that he took in their every
movement.
  Finally Jordan pulled back on the reins and
Elle stopped the wagon as the man rode up in
front of Jordan.
  He touched the tip of his hat in respect to her
and said in a gravelly, dry voice, "Howdy,
folks. Can you spare any water?"
  Elle didn't wait to ask Jordan. She
turned to Julie and nodded.
  "Where are you heading?" Jordan asked.
  Elle noted that the question sounded more like interrogation
than politeness.
  "North," the man answered evasively, as
he accepted the canteen from Julie's outstretched
hand. "How about you?"
  "South," Jordan countered.
  Elle thought the whole thing was silly. Why were
they so suspicious of each other? "We're going
to meet up with Jordan's herd of cattle. Have
you seen them?" Elle asked in a friendly voice,
glad to see a new face.
  The man spit a stream of ghastly brown
tobacco juice to the ground, before bringing the canteen
to his mouth. Swallowing the water, he shook his
head and smiled. "Why, no, ma'am, I
haven't. A herd of cattle this time of year?"
He shot Jordan a curious look. "Headin'
south?"
  Elle couldn't help shuddering and she didn't
dare look at Julie for fear of her reaction
to the man's manners. But then again, Cooky had
done the same thing so this spitting must be a fairly
common, though disgusting, practice. Thank God,
Jordan didn't--
  It was then she noticed that for some strange
reason Jordan was glaring at her. In the
awkward silence that followed, he slowly turned
his attention back to the man. "She's mistaken,"
he said in a cold voice. "We're merely
going home. Though I do expect to meet up with
friends in Decatur." He hesitated for only a
moment before extending his gloved hand. "Jordan
McCabe."
  The man nodded, looking like he had
expected the name. He took Jordan's hand in
his and said, "Harley Longham."
  The two shook hands quickly, coldly, as if
neither really wanted to do it.
  Elle couldn't understand why Jordan lied about the
herd, or why he was upset with her for talking about
it, so she remained silent ... like the rest of them.
Presently, the man handed back the canteen and
tipped his hat to her.
  "Thank you, ma'am. I'd best be going. Good
luck to you folks."
  Jordan nodded, and Elle noticed for the first
time that his hand was casually resting on his gun. And so
was Kyle's. What the heck were they doing? She was
relieved to see Mr. Longham nod to them and
quietly ride away.
  "Well, that was real friendly," she muttered when
the man had put enough distance between them.
  Staring after Longham, Jordan said, "Don't
you ever mention the herd again. Not to anyone."
  "What?" Her mouth dropped open in
surprise. "What's the secret? They aren't
invisible, you know. People have seen them. I just wanted
to know if he had, and how far away they were. I
thought you might like to know, too."
  "It's not your fault," Jordan admitted.
"I should have said something to you earlier." Taking off his
hat, he wiped his forehead on his sleeve.
"I'm sorry if I growled at you,
Elizabeth--it's just that you don't know how things
are out here yet. You keep your business to yourself."
  She could tell he was sincere in his apology and
she decided that today was too special to argue.
Instead, she smiled. "It's okay. I didn't
know. Now, I do."
  He looked into her eyes and held her gaze
for a few exciting seconds before saying, "By the
way, happy birthday."
  Surprised, Elle was about to ask how he
knew when he added, "Julie told me.
We'll have to see what we can do to celebrate
tonight."
  He didn't give her a chance to respond.
Grinning at her with what she would have sworn was
flat-out flirtation, he rode away. She could
only stare after him. Even when Julie elbowed
her and indicated that she should follow the men, Elle
simply stared at Jordan's back. What
did he mean by that? She mindlessly flicked the
reins over the horse's rump and drove
the wagon after him. Her arms didn't hurt any
longer. She wasn't even tired. Instead, her
brain was filled with possibilities. In her time
a man hinting like that on a woman's birthday about
celebrating might mean one thing. In this time, he
could merely intend to show her how rattlesnakes
dance. It was hard to tell.
  It also meant she would spend the rest of the afternoon
indulging in some great fantasies.
  Rattlesnakes dancing? By God, she really
was getting into this whole western thing.

  "So anyway ... like I was saying, there
wasn't any more bizarre adventurer than one
Sir George Grant. An upper-crust
Englishman. He responded to the call of the
West by advertising in the papers for a team of young
bloods, preferably remittance men, to join him
and found an English colony on a tract of land
he'd bought from the Union Pacific."
  "Where was this again?" Elle asked.
  Jordan smiled across the campfire.
"Kansas."
  "Get out ..." She couldn't help laughing.
"An English colony in Kansas?"
  He nodded, thoroughly enjoying himself, and Elle
was sure this was the most relaxed she had ever seen
him. They had just finished eating and were sitting around
the campfire, talking, when Jordan had
decided to contribute to the conversation. Julie and
Kyle were sitting next to each other, as was their
custom. Elle made a mental note to talk
to Jordan about the teenagers and their obvious
infatuation with each other.
  Young love.
§§
  She tried not to be condescending.
  They were cute to watch ... all the shy glances,
the casual brushing against each other ... dear
God, she almost described herself and Jordan tonight
as everyone prepared the meal. The warm glances, the
unintentional, lingering touching while passing the
coffeepot. But she'd been thinking about Julie and
Kyle. Right? What was happening between her and
Jordan had to be her imagination.
  As Jordan continued to speak, she had
to concentrate, for the picture he presented, leaning
up against the wagon, with Cory sitting close
to his side, made Elle grow warm. And it had
little to do with the campfire that burned between them.
  "So when Sir Grant assembled his
team and collected their hunting pinks, some
horses, some sheep and some Aberdeen Angus
cattle, he sailed away for America. In
St. Louis he buys himself a steamboat and is
real put out to learn that there's plenty of wind, but
no rivers worth anything in Kansas. So now
he has a steamboat and no place to take it."
  Julie and Kyle laughed, and even Cory
smiled. A little.
  "All right, now this part is a little hard
to swallow, but I swear it's true. These
Englishmen, you see, have a strange and confused
picture of the West. They probably figured
on endless nights of poker and faro, a few
buffalo hunts and fox hunts, a possible
brush with wild Indians and maybe some wild
women--"
  He glanced at Elle and said, "I'm
sorry. I forgot."
  She shrugged. "Go on."
  Jordan sipped his coffee and grinned.
"Okay Now hear this. These fellows, stuck with a
steamboat and a dream, dragged the thing two hundred
miles across the prairie and found a creek."
  "What?" Kyle shook his head.
  "C'mon," Elle challenged. "They dragged a
steamboat two hundred miles?"
  "I swear. It's true."
  "But they only found a creek?" Julie
objected.
  Jordan laughed at their combined disbelief.
"Ahh ... they dammed it up and made a little
lake. They could navigate for eight to ten miles
up and down."
  Now Elle laughed. "I don't believe
it!"
  "It's true. They had great fun, for a while.
They shot jackrabbits and coyote and barged up
and down the lake and tended their cattle. Stayed for
about four or five years."
  "Why did they leave?" Julie asked, and
Elle looked at her as if the girl had lost
it, for she sounded as if she really believed
Jordan.
  "The summer heat and the bitter winters got
to them. Then there was a long drought. And, if you'll
pardon me, the story goes that the few women they
actually encountered were not up to legendary standards.
One of the young bloods pronounced the whole thing a
deuced bore, and they took off for
home."
  "That's it? That's the big finish?" Elle
felt duped. Surely such a long story should have
a point.
  Jordan didn't disappoint them. "Well, in
the end, Sir George Grant had the
satisfaction of seeing his village named
Victoria, after Her Gracious Majesty. And
he introduced to the United States the Aberdeen
Angus breed of cattle. Just like my bull."
  As everyone showed their appreciation with the story,
he looked exceedingly pleased with himself.
  Elle muttered, "Well, if you ask me,
I think there's more than a little bull in that story."
  Jordan appeared shocked. "Elizabeth. I
swear to you. That's exactly the way I heard
it."
  Nodding, she grinned. "Okay," she conceded.
"It was a good story."
  Jordan smiled at her. It was one of those
smiles that extended to the eyes, where the eyes almost
shine with merriment. Elle realized it had been an
awfully long time since a man had looked at
her with genuine affection. And this man ... well,
for this man it was special.
  "All right," Jordan drew everyone's
attention. "We all agreed that everyone has
to contribute to this celebration. Kyle did his
rope tricks and played the mouth organ.
Julie baked us a fine pan cake and Cory
helped. I, myself, regaled you with a thrilling, and
informative I might add, narration. Now,
Miss Mackenzie, it's your turn."
  They all turned to her with expectation.
  "Entertain us, madam."
  She felt a blush of embarrassment creep
up from her throat. "But I'm the birthday
person. You should be entertaining me," she
protested.
  "Ahh ... but we have," Jordan countered.
"We agreed. Everyone has to take part. Now
it's your turn."
  "That's right, Miss Elle. It's your
turn," Kyle added.
  "C'mon, Miss Elle, you can do something,"
Julie prodded good-naturedly.
  Elle sat Indian-style across the campfire
from them. She felt their eyes on her and her brain
picked that moment to turn to mush. She couldn't think
of a thing to do. She wasn't talented in
any of the creative arts. She could show them how
to close a deal, put the pressure on a
prospective client, but somehow she didn't
think that was what they had in mind. Donald
Trump might be amused, but not these people.
  And then it came to her. The one thing they would
appreciate. Now, if she could only remember
all the words ...
  In her best Willie Nelson impersonation,
she threw her head back like a coyote, took a
deep breath, and howled to the sky, "Momma,
don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys
..." She couldn't look at them, for if she did
she would never be able to continue. And once she
started, she realized she didn't care anyway.
She was having a good time. Enjoying every moment, she
sang the first verse straight through, which was all she
remembered anyway.
  If she lived to be a hundred, she would never
forget the astonishment on their faces. Bursting out
laughing, Elle knew she had just blown her
city-girl image forever. She also knew she had
never felt this close to anyone. Tonight, they were her
family. Kyle, Julie and Cory ... and
Jordan. She loved each one.
  Regaining her breath, she smiled at them with
affection and pride.
  She was right. This had turned into a great day.

  There were just two of them left awake. Kyle and
Julie and Cory were sound asleep in their
bedrolls under the wagon. Elle and Jordan
sat side by side against the wheel, watching the last
of the embers die out in the campfire. It was
quiet, except for the noises of the animals and
Elle was feeling hypnotized from staring into the
flames. They had begun the day like this, just the two
of them, and it seemed fitting that it end the same
way.
  "Thank you, Jordan," she whispered. "It was
the best birthday I ever had."
  "The best?" he asked in a hushed voice.
"Surely, you've had better. This was only--"
  "Only the best," she interrupted sleepily.
"I mean it. Everyone was great. I felt ...
well, I felt like you were all my family. I
appreciate that."
  "Do you miss them? Your family? You've never
talked about them."
  She smiled. "I don't, do I?"
Shrugging, she added, "I guess that's because there
isn't that much to say."
  "C'mon, everybody has a few things to say
about families. What was your father like?"
  He was smiling, she thought. He thinks he's
asking a simple question. How could she tell this man
the truth? What would he think? He's a man of
integrity, responsibility. How could he
possibly understand John Mackenzie? And then the
words came out, blurted from some deep well of
emotion. "My father is an alcoholic."
  Jordan looked confused. "An--an
also-co-hol-ic? I don't understand."
  She again smiled. "I didn't think you would."
She said it more simply. "He's a drunk."
  "I'm sorry. We don't have to talk about
this--"
  "I don't care," she quickly interrupted.
"I thought I would. I even tried to hide from it
myself. He is a drunk. He abuses my mother,
and he hates me because I wouldn't allow him
to make excuses." She shook her head. "I'm
sorry. I don't know why I'm telling you this."
  "Because I asked," he said in a low voice.
"Because I'm interested."
  She could feel the lack of pressure. He
wasn't prying. He was concerned. Like a friend ...
or more.
  She looked at him then, really looked into his
eyes. It was as if he were talking to her with them.
She could almost hear him telling her to trust him, that
whatever he heard would never be used against her in the
future. That tonight, whatever happened between them, her
mind and her heart were safe.
  "My parents ... my parents are Margaret and
John Mackenzie," she began in a whisper,
"and I'm from Bucks County, Pennsylvania."
  "A true Yankee," he said, smiling with
encouragement.
  She decided not to inform him that the Civil War
had been over for a hundred and twenty-six years.
"I guess that's what you'd call me--a
Yankee." She closed her eyes for a moment and
shook her head. "But I guess I've always
thought of myself as a rebel." When she glanced up
at him, she had to swallow down the acrid taste
of tears. "I've sort of made a mess of my
life," she admitted.
  He grinned. "Who hasn't? At one time or
another."
  For the next half hour she told him all about
her parents, about growing up in fear. She thought it
would have been difficult, explaining her father and his
destructive personality to someone from another
century, but Jordan was a good listener. Only
occasionally would he gently interrupt with a question. In
the end, she found herself crying silently next
to him, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world
to wind up in his arms.
  In truth, it was where she wanted to be.
  "I have something for you. For your birthday," he said
gently.
  She raised her face and looked at him as he
reached into the pocket of his shirt. Smiling, he
brought out a gold chain and when he held out his hand,
she could see a small gold locket was
attached. A tiny flower had been etched into the
front of it, so small, so dainty, that on first
glance it might only have been part of the decoration.
It was exquisite in its simplicity.
  "Jordan, I can't--" She didn't know
what to say. "It's lovely, but ..."
  "I want you to have it."
  She glanced at him, saw the truth in his words.
"But when did you get it? You didn't even know it
was my birthday in Alexander."
  He shook his head. "This is something I had
purchased a long time ago."
  And then she knew. "It was for Cynthia,
wasn't it?"
  He didn't answer at first, and when he
spoke, his voice was low and serious. "Why
don't we just say that I bought this for the woman I
was meeting in Wichita?" He smiled, and his
gaze grew warm as it roamed over her
features. "I just didn't know it would be you."
  "Here, let me put it on." He lifted the
chain over her head and pulled her braid out so the
gold would lie around her neck.
  Elle touched the heart that hung between her
breasts. She opened the locket and saw a
miniature picture of him on one side.
  "I forgot that was in there," he said with
embarrassment. "I'll take it out."
  Before he could reach for it, Elle snapped the
gold case shut. "No," she said
emphatically. "I want it there."
  They stared at each other for a few timeless
seconds, neither daring to speak. And then he pulled
her back against him, where she had been but
minutes before. Her cheek was against his cotton
shirt. The material was soft with age and she
unconsciously snuggled against it. She could feel
the warmth of his skin beneath it and she closed her eyes
to remember the moment. It had been so long since
a man had held her in his arms, so long since
she had allowed another to comfort her.
  "Thank you, Jordan," she said simply and
honestly. It was the best present she had ever
received.
  His hand came up to stroke her hair.
Gently. Softly. Over and over--following the
line of her head and down her neck. She was
astonished by the tenderness in his touch.
  "Elizabeth." He said her name as a soft
whisper against her forehead, and she knew it would never
sound the same again. His lips were warm against her
skin, brushing and grazing over it, and she closed
her eyes to memorize the moment. She felt so
secure, so protected ...
  His hands moved down her cheek and cupped her
chin, bringing her face up to his.
  "You are the most astonishing woman I've ever
known, Miss Mackenzie."
  She smiled at the irony of his words. "You have
no idea how true that is, Mr. McCabe.
I doubt if you'll ever meet another like me."
Her mouth was so close to his that she could feel his
breath on her face and, by strange coincidence,
she found herself breathing heavily, as if she'd just
run up a flight of stairs.
  "I don't mean that as conceit," she said,
gasping for air. "It's just odd ... everything about
this. How all of you came into my life, just when I
needed something to hold on to again, something to believe in
again." She was so confused; she could barely think when
he was looking at her like that.
  "And what do you believe in now, Elizabeth?"
  Dear God, his gaze was so warm she felt an
adolescent flush rise from her throat to cover
her cheeks. A weird tingling started in her thighs
and quickly traveled to her belly, making her almost
giddy with anticipation. What in the world did he have
in mind? Why was his hand beginning to move down her
back? How did he know she was a sucker for a
back rub? It had been years since anyone
outside of a spa had touched her like that, yet this
man was doing it instinctively, as if it were the most
natural thing in the world. Sighing, she closed her
eyes and enjoyed the sensation. His fingers were
so light, so gentle, that she found herself moving
into his touch, waiting for the next place where his hand
would caress.
  She felt mesmerized by the soft feathering of his
fingers over her skin. Like a drugged person,
Elle fought to open her eyes. She lifted her
face to his. "Jordan ..." She said his name
softly, yet even to her ears it sounded like a
plea, an appeal for him to continue his stroking.
  He was gazing into her face, as if memorizing
it, and Elle had a moment to wish that he could see
her as she was in her time. Impeccably groomed.
Hair by Rudolpho at Toppers. Makeup
by Lancome. Clothes by Anne Klein or
Ralph Lauren. And then it hit her. She
wasn't that self-centered person any longer. That
wasn't her. Jordan was looking at someone
totally different, and he appeared to actually like
what he was seeing. Beneath the hair and the makeup and the
clothes was Elle Mackenzie. That's all. Just
Elle.
  Elizabeth.
  Her hair was falling out of the braid that hung
down her back. She couldn't remember the last
time she had used makeup. The clothes she wore
were useful, but didn't carry a designer's name
and her scent was more natural and musky than she
might have liked. In spite of all that, what she
saw in Jordan's eyes was appreciation. Could
it be that someone liked her for herself? That she didn't
have to be, or fit, someone else's image?
Someone could like her even if she weren't
successful, or beautiful? It was too much
to comprehend.
  Touching the locket at her breast, she realized
it was also the second best birthday present she
had ever received.
  Filled with emotion, Elle did something without
thinking of the consequences. For the first time, she put
aside all her defenses, all that heavy armor
she had built around herself for protection. She
felt ... free.
  Grinning, Elizabeth Mackenzie leaned those
few inches toward Jordan and kissed him soundly
on the mouth. She could feel the surprise in his
body. It only lasted a moment and then his mouth
became demanding. She gladly gave. Giving was
easy now. He wanted her and there wasn't any
reason to hold back. Her lips parted and she
allowed his tongue entrance, permitting him
to explore. She didn't know why she thought a
cowboy from the last century would kiss differently,
but she made an important discovery. Kissing
was the same in any time. Well, almost. This was
better than any kiss she could remember. It was
thrilling and provocative, breathtaking in its
intensity. She could barely think, only react.
And when he pulled his mouth away, she actually
groaned in disappointment. And she didn't care.
  Reluctantly, she opened her eyes to find
him staring at her with astonishment.
  "Lizzie ... you're amazing," he breathed,
staring at her as if she were from another planet,
instead of another time.
  She tried to recapture her breath.
"Nobody calls me Lizzie," she muttered,
licking her bottom lip. Didn't he also just
say she was amazing? Her? Amazing? But this
Lizzie thing ... she had to straighten him out on
this. "No one has ever called me Lizzie."
She smiled to soften her words because he was a great
kisser and she certainly didn't want to mess this
up.
  "I didn't think anyone ever did. And that's
why I'm going to."
  They were staring at each other. It wasn't a
conflict; it was more of a challenge. Lizzie? It
sounded like the name of a spinster aunt, but from his lips
it also took on the significance of an endearment.
It almost sounded cute. And even though she had never
been termed cute, even though she would have cringed at
the tag, she suddenly found it wasn't as
offensive as she had once thought. Lizzie.
  He didn't give her time to think as he
pulled her back into his embrace and again
captured her mouth.
  This time when their lips met it was with eagerness, as
if they couldn't get enough of each other. She touched
his face, running her fingertips over the hard
planes of his cheekbones, the scratchiness of the
beard on his chin. The nerve endings in her fingers
sent waves of excitement racing up her hands,
through her arms and shoulders and brain, and her brain was
telling her to forget the reasons why this meeting and
mating were impossible--just enjoy it, embrace it.
Relish it.
  "The children," she whispered against his mouth.
  "They're sleeping," he countered, drawing her
mouth back to his. He kissed her softly,
gently, soothing her doubts. "It's
all right."
  His gaze met hers and held. As his hand moved
over her face, tracing the outline of her
eyebrows, her cheekbones, her lips, Elle
thought back to the morning at the hotel in Alexander
when she had seen him sleeping with Cory, when she
knew that in this relationship she would be the one to get
hurt. This was not a man to take lightly. If
she gave herself, she knew she would also be giving
her heart. Could she do it? It would take
courage, for in the end she would always be alone. But
just this once? Could she embrace happiness just this
once, for as long as it lasted?
  His hand had traced the slope of her shoulder and
was moving downward--slowly, now hesitantly, as
if waiting for a sign from her.
  And then she knew what she wanted. Risking
her heart, she took his hand and moved it so he could
feel the loud beating behind her breast. Still staring at
each other, they breathed almost as one.
  "Lizzie--I ..."
  "Well, now. Ain't this the touching scene?"
  They froze at the sudden question and turned quickly
in the direction of the voice.
  Stepping into the light of the campfire, Harley
Longham walked toward them and Elle was again
reminded of how straight he looked. He still had
a wad of chewing tobacco in his cheek.
  He also had a gun, and it was pointed right at
them.

              Chapter 15

  Elle sat frozen in fear as the man growled,
"Get those kids out here. Wake 'em up!"
  He appeared nervous, and she could only stare
at the wild look in his eyes. Without breaking the
man's intense gaze, Jordan nudged her and
said, "Wake the children, Elizabeth."
  She glanced at Jordan, but he wasn't
taking his eyes off Longham. "Do it,
Elizabeth," Jordan ordered. Shaking, she
turned back to the buckboard and leaned underneath it.
  "Kyle. Julie. Cory. Wake up."
She shook the young man and it was then she noticed his
gun, nestled in its holster by his head. While
the children stirred, making confused noises, Elle
pulled Kyle's gun out and dragged it through the
dirt as she withdrew from under the wagon. She
didn't know what she would do with it. Her
hands were shaking so badly that she could only hide it
behind her as she gathered Cory into her arms and sat
back with Jordan.
  When Julie and Kyle were standing next to the
wagon, Harley ordered, "Everybody up.
Let's go."
  Terrified that the man would see the gun, Elle
stumbled and Jordan had to help her and Cory
rise. She was grateful for the long skirt, for
Longham didn't appear to have noticed the
revolver behind her.
  "Hated to interrupt that tender scene,
McCabe, but you've got somethin' I want."
Longham spit a stream of tobacco juice into the
campfire and everyone could hear it sizzle.
  "And what's that?" Jordan asked in a
surprisingly calm voice.
  Longham grinned, showing gaps between his yellowed
teeth. "The horses will do for a start," he
chuckled, before becoming deadly serious. "But what
I'm really after is the payoff you got for bringing that
herd of cattle up to Wichita last month. I
was in Wellington when you went through on your way
north. Four hundred head is the way I
heard."
  "You heard wrong," Kyle muttered.
  Longham swung in the direction of Julie and
Kyle. "Was I talkin' to you, boy?"
  He turned back to Jordan. "Now, you go
get that money, McCabe, and there won't be any
trouble." He pointed the gun at Elle.
"Wouldn't want to hurt the little lady here, seeing
as how you was spoonin' with her just a few minutes
ago."
  No one moved. Finally, Jordan said,
"Look, Longham, I wouldn't keep that kind of
money with me. Half of it was deposited in the
bank at Wichita, and the other half is with my
men."
  "You're lyin'." Harley looked angry.
  Jordan shook his head. "Why would I take
a chance like that? I gave it to my trail boss."
  Desperate, Longham yelled, "You, girl,
you search that buckboard. I want everything out.
Dump it all out until we find that money."
  Julie was frightened, but did as she was told.
They all watched as the young girl methodically
emptied all the trunks. Elle held Cory
on her hip until he was too heavy, and then she
let him stand next to her. She could feel
the fear in his young body and she pulled him close
to her waist. Her mind was frantically searching for a
way to reach the gun at her feet, or at least
to let Jordan know that it was there.
  When all the trunks were emptied, Harley
ventured closer for a look. He was breathing
heavily, anger clear in his expression. "Where'd
you hide it, McCabe?" he demanded.
  Jordan again shook his head. "I told you the
first time you asked. I don't have it with me. You
made a mistake, Longham. Why don't you just
ride off and we'll all forget about this."
  Harley laughed, and the sound sent chills up
Elle's back.
  "You think I trailed you fifteen miles for
nothin'? Think again, my friend." He pointed the
long pistol at Jordan as he came closer.
When he was in front of them, Harley glanced
to Elle and smiled. "That pretty necklace would
sure get me one hell of a night in San
Antonio. I heard them Mex bitches love
anything gold."
  Elle's hand came up to clutch the necklace
and she could feel her heart thudding behind it. Harley
laughed evilly and made a point of licking his
lips as he said, "Maybe you and me can pick up
where you left off when I'm through with McCabe.
What do you think of that, little lady? How long
since you been with a real man?"
  "Leave her alone," Jordan ordered, anger
clear in his voice. "That's not what you came for."
  Harley looked back. Never once diverting
his attention from Jordan, he said, defiantly,
"Yeah, that's right. But I'm not about to walk away
with nothing. Maybe I'll let you watch. Show you
how it's done, McCabe. How'd you like that,
Missy? Ever did it with an audience?"
  "Get away from her, Longham."
  Elle could feel the coiled rage in
Jordan. Even though his voice was low and
controlled, even though he didn't move a
muscle, Jordan McCabe was a man about
to explode.
  "Empty your pockets, McCabe. Let's
see what you've got in there."
  Jordan didn't do anything for a moment; he
merely stared at the man. Drawing in a deep
breath, he finally dug into the pockets of his
jeans. Elle watched as he brought out a folded
stack of bills. It didn't look like
much to Elle, certainly not enough to satisfy
Longham.
  Jordan held out the money and Harley moved
toward it. To Elle's surprise, just as the
gunman was about to take the money, Jordan
flung it at him, startling the man for a moment.
  It was all Jordan needed.
  Amid flying bills, he tackled Longham,
both of them landing in the dirt with a loud thud. The
gun dropped to the ground, useless to the robber.
Elle watched in horror as the two men
wrestled, rolling over and over, each trying to gain
the upper hand. When they parted, they rose like angry
bears--crouching, arms outstretched, weighing the other
in their minds. And then they came together again.
Harley swung his fist. Jordan easily
sidestepped it. Jordan brought his arm back and
put the strength of his body into it when he brought it
forward. It connected with Longham's stomach. The
thin man doubled over, but backed away too quickly
for Jordan to follow with another punch.
  From far off, Elle heard Julie scream as
Longham charged Jordan, bringing him to the ground.
He was a man possessed, a man fearing for his
life. Tobacco juice spilled from his mouth as
he gasped for breath. He clawed and scratched and
ripped Jordan's shirt as he tried
to overturn him. Frustrated by Jordan's
strength, Longham butted Jordan in the face,
causing Jordan to jerk backward and giving the
thief time to draw back his fist. After it
connected, Elle gasped as she saw blood
pouring from Jordan's nose.
  She had to do something! This could not go on ...
  Elle seemed rooted to the ground. She heard
Cory whimper and saw Kyle move toward
Longham's gun by the fire, just as Jordan's
arm was reaching out for it. Even though she was sure her
heart would soon burst through her chest, even though
she was dizzy with fear, she knew she had to move,
to push down the paralyzing fear. Shoving Cory
toward Julie, she knelt down and picked up
Kyle's gun. She was surprised by how heavy it
was.
  "Kyle!" She called out to the boy.
  He spun around and she tossed it to him, just as
Jordan overturned Longham. His face was now
being pummeled with heavy, unceasing blows as
Jordan began to dominate the battle. The
horrible sound of the punches cut through the
night, as did the man's short grunts of
anguish.
  "Jordan!" Kyle called out to his boss,
yet Jordan seemed determined to punish
Longham by crashing his face with his fist ... again and
again.
  Kyle walked up to the two men and pointed his
gun to the one on the ground. His hand shook and he
had to use his other to steady his aim. In a scared
voice, he announced, "I got him covered,
Cap'n! You can back off now!"
  The boy's words seemed to puncture the cloud
of rage that had enveloped Jordan. His arm
froze in mid-air as he stared at the young man
who had ridden by his side for years. For just a
moment, he looked confused. And then he pulled
himself off of Longham quickly, breathing heavily, and
wiping the blood from his nose onto the back of his
hand.
  "Good job, Kyle," Jordan muttered,
spitting blood onto the ground.
  Elle watched as Longham started to crawl
away.
  "Jordan!" she called out. "He's--
he's--"
  "Stay where you are, Longham," Jordan
ordered, pulling the gun out of Kyle's hand.
  Harley Longham stumbled a few times and then
rose to his feet. He started running, slowly
at first, and then faster, determined to put as much
distance as possible between himself and those around the
campfire.
  "I said stop," Jordan yelled. "Or
I'll shoot."
  The man kept running.
  She would never forget the moment. It all
happened so quickly.
  In a flash of movement, Jordan reached out and
fired. Harley lurched forward, stumbling, trying
to regain his footing, but failing. And then he went
down.
  He never rose again.
  Elle sank to her knees in horror, her hand
clutching the gold chain at her neck. Shocked,
she watched as Jordan and Kyle walked over
to the body. She could see Jordan kneel down
and then rise. In the stillness of the night, she
heard him mutter to Kyle, "Get a shovel and
bury the bastard."
  Cory and Julie were crying and Elle
could do no more than pat Julie's shoulder as she
stood up and walked toward Jordan. He
looked frightening. It wasn't just the fight that had
put the strange look into his eyes. It was
something more. Something so foreign, so forbidding, that
Elle could barely speak. But then she must. For the
question would haunt her forever if she didn't.
  "Why?" Her voice pleaded with him for an
answer, something that would make sense of it all.
"Why did you kill him? He was running away."
  He glared at her, the muscle in his cheek
working furiously. "I will say this one time,
Elizabeth," he announced in a clipped
voice. "And then don't ever question me again.
Longham wasn't just running away. Do you
actually think he wouldn't have come back, trailed
us for days until he got revenge? And if he
couldn't do it alone, a man like him knows others that
would help. He was going to steal our horses.
Rob us. Rape you, if he could. And then
probably kill us all. You tell me what
choice I had, for I wish to God there'd been
another."
  Without another word he walked away from her to the
buckboard and pulled out a shovel to help
Kyle. He didn't look at her as he
passed.
  But Elle looked at him, and in his eyes she
saw something even more frightening than before. He had the
same haunted look as Cory.

  As he pounded the hard earth with his foot around the
body of Harley Longham, Jordan touched
Kyle's shoulder. "Go on back," he
muttered. "I'll finish up here."
  Tired, Kyle merely nodded and headed back
to the camp not fifty yards away. Jordan
stood at the grave. The lamp on the ground
burned low; its light would soon fade. In the
stillness of the night, with only the sounds of nature
around him, Jordan McCabe watched the ghosts
of his past rush up to greet him. Their faces were
varied: men in their middle years, tired and weary
from war; old men, who should have been living out their
remaining years in peace; and, most tragically, the
young ones, who would never have the opportunity.
Years ago he had realized they were all the
same. They weren't his enemies. They were all
brave men, disillusioned by causes, wondering what
the hell they were fighting for anymore.
  But he had known. Each of them was just fighting
to stay alive for one more day, hoping with every sunrise
that it wasn't their last. That was what it came down
to in the end. Survival. They did whatever was
necessary to hang on, whatever it took. And it always
took the form of death.
  Looking down to the grave at his feet,
Jordan felt the bile rise in his throat.
He hadn't killed a man since the war; he'd
seen too much and done too much to let it continue.
There was nothing honorable in death, no matter what
the novelists wrote. It was ugly and final.
  And now he had taken part in it again. It
didn't matter that the logical part of his brain was
telling him that he'd done the right thing, the only
thing, to ensure the safety of Elizabeth and the
others. He knew. For years he had tried
to bury the ghosts, those men he had killed in
battle, and he'd been successful. But now, with
Harley Longham forever still beneath his feet, he had
to acknowledge the others.
  They were still there. They would remain with him for the rest
of his life.
  He had seen the revulsion in Elizabeth's
eyes, but it was nothing compared to his own awareness.
That part of him, that piece of himself that he had thought
safely buried--the person that could destroy
another. It had risen to the surface with a
terrifying swiftness. He knew now it had always
been there, waiting.
  And he also knew that it would never go away.
  "You won," he whispered down to the grave with
bitterness. For in his heart he realized that
Harley Longham had succeeded in stealing something from
him--
  His peace of mind.

              Chapter 16

  Nothing was the same. Jordan was cold and
withdrawn and his attitude infected the rest of them.
Cory was the only one that he allowed close
to him, and even then the child knew when to keep his
distance. Jordan McCabe was like a stranger.
He barked orders, and was impatient when they
weren't carried out fast enough. He barely spoke
to Elle, and when he did, his voice was clipped
and impersonal. But it was his eyes that frightened her
the most. They were hard, almost cruel, and they
looked right through her.
  Elle wasn't sure what had caused him
to change--whether it had been the actual killing
or her unthinking remarks. Later, after she had
gotten over the shock, she'd realized that
Jordan was right. He really didn't have much of a
choice. She had tried to talk to him,
to apologize, but he had only stared at her. It
was as if he hadn't heard ... or hadn't cared.
  He was like a man driven by unseen demons,
pushing all of them further each day, riding well
past dusk. Only when it was impossible to see
any longer would they stop for the night. And then he
let everyone know he resented the interruption. It
was as if a strained truce existed among them.
Everyone knew to stay clear of him. Conversation
ceased--unless it was Julie and Kyle whispering
off to the side, or Elle and the children murmuring
to each other.
  Jordan didn't want to be apart of them any
longer, and Elle had the feeling that he couldn't
wait to get rid of them. They had always been, after
all, a responsibility he had taken on
reluctantly. Just because she had felt they were almost
a family, that didn't make it so. They were
strangers he had taken pity on, nothing more. No
matter how much she wanted it to be different, she
was powerless.
  In her own way, she grieved for the loss. For
just a night, a sweet, magical night, she had
opened her heart and Jordan McCabe had
crept in and taken hold. But now her own
defenses were again in position. She couldn't afford
the luxury of loving ... not now.
  Now she had to concentrate on herself and the children--and the
children came first. She'd been sidetracked by her
heart, that's all. She simply had to remember
the reason why she was here. It wasn't for
Jordan, nor even herself. It was Julie and
Cory. Kyle had said there was only one more town
they would pass through before Jordan turned off the
trail and headed for home. Decatur. It sounded
like a typical Texas cowtown. Now if only
she could find--she stopped herself. She would have
to find the proper home. This was her last chance.
  Clutching the gold heart that hung heavily between
her breasts, Elle felt her stomach tighten with
apprehension as Kyle yelled out in a young,
happy voice.
  "It's them, Cap'n Look--Traver and
Cooky!" Letting out a wild,
Indian hail of excitement, Kyle kicked his
heels into the brown sorrel's sides and took
off in the direction of the herd.
  Well, here it is, Elle thought while trying
to stay calm. We're back at the beginning. She
looked at Jordan and was surprised by his
lack of expression. Not even seeing his precious
herd again seemed to make a difference. Maybe
he, too, was thinking that this is how the adventure
began for them. But now neither of them was the same any
longer. So much had happened, and they had both
changed.
  She was stronger.
  He was more distant.
  The question was ... how was it going to end?
  "Miss Elle?"
  Turning in the direction of Julie's voice,
she could see apprehension in the child's expression.
It was mirrored on her brother's face.
  "Hey, it's okay," she said with a false
brightness. "Those men work for Jordan. You'll like
them." She called out to the man on horseback not
ten feet away. "Won't they, Jordan?"
  He turned his head, as if just remembering she
was there. "What did you say?"
  She ignored his rudeness; the act was becoming more
difficult to pull off. "I said the children will like
Traver and Cooky, and the others. Don't you
think?" She was smiling.
  As usual, he appeared impatient. "Why
wouldn't they?" he asked shortly. He looked out
to the covered wagon, the men on horseback, the
large bodies of the cattle as they grazed on the
tall, dry grass. "If you would, for once,
stop trying to solve everyone else's problem, and
just do your job and drive the wagon, they just might
find out for themselves."
  He kicked his horse, spurring it into a
gallop as he raced across the flat land. Elle
watched his image grow smaller as he closed the
distance between himself and his herd. She followed his
image and her eyes narrowed with anger.
  Enough was enough. She had just about had it with Jordan
Dillon McCabe's attitude. Why couldn't
he see how scared the kids were? What would it have
taken for him to have been a little reassuring? Maybe
she'd been a bit too understanding in the last few
days. Perhaps her acceptance of his ill humor
only encouraged it.
  Flicking the reins over the horse's
rump, Elle vowed that if she never saw the back
end of a horse again it would be too soon. She also
vowed that, at the first possible opportunity, she was
going to let Mr. McCabe know just how closely
he resembled that part of the animal's anatomy.
  She was no longer smiling. She was, in good
olde western lingo, pissed off.

  "Miss Elizabeth. Glad to see you
lookin' so much better." Smiling, Traver
Diggs helped Elle down from the buckboard.
Without questioning, he assisted Julie and then Cory.
  She returned his smile. "Thanks,
Traver, it's good to see you too. Is everyone
all right?"
  The weathered cowboy nodded. "Right as can be."
He looked to the children.
  Elle again felt annoyance that Jordan had
deserted them, leaving the explanations to her. She
took off the wide cowboy hat and wiped her
forehead. Later. She'd talk to him later. Right
now she wanted to support the children, for Cory's
eyes were wide with apprehension as he stared around
him.
  "Traver, this is Julie and Cory
Woodson. They're traveling with us," she added,
not wanting to explain more at the time.
  Traver tipped the brim of his hat to Julie
and glanced down to Cory. "Ever seen an Angus
bull before, son?"
  Cory quickly looked up to the older man and
shook his head.
  Traver grinned. "Well, then, come along.
You've got yourself a treat. Think about now
Lothario might welcome a new face." He
put his wide hand on Cory's shoulder and led him
away.
  Elle laughed. "Lothario?" she called after
them.
  Traver turned and shrugged. "We got tired
of callin' it bull. Cooky said it was a real
classy name for a ..." he seemed to struggle for a
proper word. "For a bull," he added lamely.
  Elle nodded and watched as the man and boy
walked toward the animal that was kept at a distance
from the cows. She sighed with resignation and turned
to the chuckwagon. There he was, as cranky and
ornery-looking as when she'd first met him.
  Plopping the hat back on her head, she said
to Julie, "Come on. I'll
introduce you to Arlyn Sinclair, better known
as Cooky." She grinned wryly. "It's quite an
experience." Poor Arlyn. Now he'd have to put
up with two females. He was probably
cussin' already.
  To her surprise Arlyn greeted her almost
warmly. "Had us real worried there, Missy.
Never saw nobody more miserable with gettin' a
tooth yanked."
  Elle ran her tongue over the healed
socket. She had almost forgotten that experience.
It seemed like ages ago. Thank God for
dissolving stitches, for she didn't even want
to think of how she would have had to deal with that. Hadn't
it been Cooky who'd told her that in the West
blacksmiths doubled as dentists? Talk about hoof
and mouth--. Forget it, she told herself. She had
other things to think about.
  "I'm fine now," she quickly stated and glanced
at the young teenager at her side. "Thanks to some
very good nursing." Elle smiled at Julie.
"You also have some tough competition here, Arlyn.
Julie is an excellent cook. She might
even teach you a thing or two. Bless her heart,
she's tried with me. Not too successfully, I
might add."
  Cooky looked at Julie with more interest.
"You can cook outside a kitchen?"
  Julie nodded.
  "You done the cookin' for the Cap'n?"
  Again, Julie shook her head in answer to the
question. "Kyle helped ... and so did Miss
Elle."
  Now it was Arlyn's turn to shake his head in
disbelief. "Kyle ain't no help at all and,
beggin' your pardon, Miss Elizabeth, but
you're even less." He stared at the girl in
front of him. "If you managed to satisfy the
Cap'n, then it looks like I got me a real
hired hand. Been tellin' 'em I needed one for
months now." He ignored Elle and led
Julie closer to his wagon. "I'll even
talk to the Cap'n about pay. Won't be much,
seein' as how we're so close to home, but if you
work out ... yup, we'll see about back pay,
too."
  Elle watched them in wonder. What had
happened to everyone? Cooky seemed ... nice?
In fact, as she looked around her, she saw other
cowboys smile and nod in greeting. Was
she no longer the outcast? What had changed their
minds? Surely Jordan hadn't said anything
to them. It was curious, but she decided not to question it.
Things were going to be tough enough.
  She didn't realize at the time how
prophetic that statement was as Jordan walked
up to her. Slapping his gloves against his thigh with
impatience, he said in a rough voice, "We're
going into Decatur soon. Traver said there's a
couple in town. They own the mercantile store,
and they're childless. Be ready in thirty
minutes, and bring the children."
  Her mouth hung open as he abruptly turned
away. She swallowed her shock, then called out
after him, "Wait a minute!"
  He stopped, yet didn't face her.
  She crossed the few yards and circled to face
him.
  "What do you think you're doing?" she demanded,
feeling a hot flush of anger creep up her
throat.
  He took a deep breath with exaggerated
patience, as if he were forced to converse with someone of
lesser intelligence. "I am trying to find a
home for Julie and Cory. That is what we
said we would do."
  "I'm supposed to do it. Not you," she countered.
Her eyes narrowed with anger. "You can't wait
to get rid of us, can you?"
  "I'm not going to argue with you in front of the men.
Why can't you please do as you were asked?"
  She lowered her voice, yet her tone bristled
with indignation. "Look, what do you want from me?
I said I was sorry. If you're mad at me
then take it out on me, not the children."
  He looked right through her. "I'm not mad at
you, or the children. Nor do I intend to discuss this
further."
  He started to walk away from her, but she quickly
grabbed his arm. "Jordan. Don't do this.
Don't dump the children, just to get rid of a problem.
They'll feel deserted--"
  "I've made my decision, Elizabeth,"
he interrupted, then added, "And you might want
to give some thought as to your own plans. If you wish
to go back east, I'll provide your fare.
You've certainly earned it."
  The pain would have been less if he had slapped
her face. Stunned, Elle could only stare at
him as he said, "Now we have twenty
minutes. Please have the children ready."
  She watched in amazement as he walked away
from her. Jordan McCabe had turned into a
cold, unfeeling man ... and she thought herself ten
times a fool for ever thinking differently.

  Next to Decatur, Alexander seemed almost
cosmopolitan by comparison. Decatur,
Texas was a small cowtown with three bars, a
hotel above one; a blacksmith, an undertaker,
a small white building with a cross on top; a
title office and the mercantile store. That was it.
As Elle drove the wagon down the main
street, she shuddered. This couldn't be the entire
town! Jordan couldn't condemn the children to spend their
youth in such a place. She glared at the man
riding horseback in front of her, riding
straight up to a store constructed of rough wooden
planks. In front was a crudely lettered sign
that read: Cummings Mercantile est.
1873.
  Once he'd tied his horse to a post out
front, Jordan stepped to the wagon and helped
Cory and Julie down. When he offered his hand
to Elle, her eyes blazed her anger, and her
refusal. Hopping to the ground, she straightened
her short jacket and took a deep breath. "You
can't be serious," she muttered to him.
  Ignoring her, he placed his hand behind Cory and
led him up to the front door. A bell clanged
when they entered. Immediately she smelled the strong
aroma of coffee beans, saw dust and gunpowder.
She blinked several times and, as Elle's eyes
acclimated to the darker interior, she was able to see
a woman coming from behind a glass-front counter on
which brightly woven Indian blankets were stacked.
  Elle guessed the woman to be in her early
forties. She wore a brown dress with white
lace at the collar. Her hair matched her
costume--brown, with threads of gray at the
temples. She had a kind face. Her cheeks
were ruddy, the complexion of someone in good health.
Elle wanted to dislike her, but couldn't ignore
the expectant, though nervous look in the
woman's eyes. Clearly excited, she stopped
in front of them, her hands clasped together at her
waist.
  She smiled. "Hello. I ... I'm so
happy to meet all of you." Turning to the back
of the store she called out in a loud
voice, "John ... they're here!" She looked
back at them and her smile widened nervously.
"I'm Ardelle Cummings."
  Jordan took off his hat and inclined his head
in respect. "How do you do, Mrs. Cummings?
I'm Jordan McCabe. This is Elizabeth
Mackenzie and Julie and Cory Woodson."
He smiled tightly. "I believe Traver
Diggs talked to you about the children?"
  Ardelle nodded as her husband came up
to greet them. "Why, yes, he did," she said
quickly, then added, "this is my husband, John.
We've been in Decatur since
'seventy-three. We live right behind the store.
I can show you, if you like. We're members of the
First Baptist Church of Christ, and--"
  "Ardelle," her husband interrupted. "Calm
down. Let me meet them first."
  The woman looked embarrassed, and took a
step back behind her husband. Elle noticed that
Ardelle Cummings had either a great amount of
respect for her husband, or an alarming degree
of fear. Deciding it was too soon to tell,
Elle watched as the older, heavy-set man
shook hands with Jordan and turned to her.
  It was quite natural for her to also extend her hand
in greeting, though John Cummings looked taken
back by her action. "How do you do, Mr.
Cummings?" she asked in her best businesslike
voice.
  "Fine," the shopkeeper muttered, clearly
upset by what he must have perceived as her manly
attitude.
  Elle grinned, just to throw him further off
base. Instinct told her that she liked the
woman, but the man was harder to read.
  "Well, so these are the children," he stated, and
Elle had the impression that he was looking them
over as if he were attending a horse auction.
  "That's Julie," Jordan said, nodding to the
young girl who stood with her arms crossed over her
breasts. "And this is Cory."
  Cory half hid behind Jordan, and Jordan
moved so Cummings could better see the boy.
  "Perhaps they would like some taffy?" Ardelle offered
in an eager voice.
  Elle said nothing, waiting for the children's reaction.
Julie shook her head defensively, clearly
old enough to realize that her future was being decided
for her. Cory merely stared at the
rough-planked wooden floor.
  "That would be very nice," Jordan answered for
them, obviously annoyed by the lack of
response.
  Ardelle nodded and hurried to the back of the
store for the candy, and Elle watched the woman's
husband. He rubbed the whiskers on his chin, as if
forming a question.
  Finally, he cleared his throat and asked it.
  "What happened to their parents? Your man never
said."
  Jordan didn't even blink when he
answered, "They were killed in an accident."
  John Cummings nodded, as though it were an
everyday occurrence. "No relatives?"
  Shaking his head, Jordan said, "None that we
know of. They need a home, Mr. Cummings.
They're good kids."
  Ardelle rushed back and offered the sweets to the
children. "Here we are," she said happily. In her
hands were long sticks of taffy. Julie
politely took one, but Cory moved further
behind Jordan.
  "The boy looks skittish," Cummings
pronounced.
  "He's just shy, John," his wife meekly
offered.
  Quiet until now, Elle cleared her
throat. "The children have been through a great deal, Mr.
Cummings. They would need patience and understanding.
Besides a home, can you give them that?"
  Cummings's eyes narrowed as he looked at
Elle. "You sound like you're interviewing me.
I've got the right to ask questions, madam. It's a
big responsibility you're asking me to take
on."
  Elle nodded. "I agree. And part of that
responsibility would be education. Can you also
provide that?"
  Cummings looked flustered. "If you mean do
we got a school yet, then the answer is no.
Ardelle can teach them all they need to know." He
looked at Julie. "Know your numbers yet?"
  Julie appeared angry and Elle couldn't
blame her, yet she nodded in answer to the question.
  Cummings was pleased. "There you go ... she can
even help out in the store."
  Elle looked pointedly at the tall man who
stood across from her. "Jordan, could I talk to you
for a moment?"
  He appeared to be irritated by her suggestion,
but walked with her to a pile of burlap sacks that
had the word Seed stamped on the front.
  "Yes. What is it?" he asked in a terse
voice.
  Elle took a deep breath to calm herself.
"You heard him," she whispered. "He's only
looking for unpd labor. We can't leave the children,
Jordan--"
  "Now you listen to me. You will not pull that same
act. Not here. Time's run out. It's now or
never."
  She could see the muscle at his cheek working
furiously, as he ground his back teeth together.
  "Then let it be never," Elle stated
impulsively. "You could take them, Jordan.
Cory already loves you--"
  "That's it," Jordan interrupted and walked
back to the group. In a firm voice, he said,
"Mr. and Mrs. Cummings, I've decided that
the children should spend the night with you. Give all of you
a chance to get to know each other, without myself or
Miss Mackenzie here. We'll come back tomorrow
afternoon and you can tell us of your decision."
  Elle was furious, yet he didn't offer her
the opportunity for rebuttal as he whisked her
out the front door. It wasn't until they were
on the street that she realized he never even gave
her the chance to say goodbye to the children.
  Glaring at him, she drew off her hat and
slapped his chest. "You are the biggest ass I have
ever come across. How could you do that?" she demanded.
  He chose to ignore her attack. Instead,
he grabbed hold of her arm and led her up the
street. When she insisted that he tell her where they
were going, he snapped, "I am depositing you in
the hotel. You can get a bath and cool off there.
If you have any more questions, and if your level of
maturity has risen, I'll be glad to answer
them tonight. Right now, I have business to take care
of."
  Before they entered the saloon, he stopped and said
in a low, threatening voice, "And don't get
any ideas of going back to the Cummings place.
Do you hear me? Stop being selfish,
Elizabeth. Think of the children, not yourself."
  She stared at him, wondering how it was possible
to hate someone so quickly. "Are you saying I am not
allowed to even say goodbye to them?"
  "What I am saying, madam, is that
if everything goes well you will have that opportunity
tomorrow. But if they see you now, they won't give that
couple a chance in hell. I'm ordering you to stay
away from them until tomorrow afternoon. Is that clear?"
  She could feel her face flaming with anger,
feel her chest heaving with indignation. "Well,
well, well ... the macho cowboy rises to the
surface once more," she taunted. Her chin
came up defensively. "Do you think just because
you're a man that I will meekly obey you? That
I'm like that woman, Ardelle, who's scared
to even stand in front of her husband? May I
remind you that you are not my husband? And there is no
law, anywhere, that says I have to listen to you and your
damn orders? If I want to see those children, you
can't stop me."
  He leaned down, so that his face was level with
hers, and said in a fierce growl, "You will not see
those children, and you will give the Cummings a chance, because
if you don't I swear to God I'll tie you
to a chair and leave you there until morning."
  She challenged him, eye to eye, chin to chin, and
her mouth slowly opened. "Try it, and I'll have
you arrested for assault."
  Ten seconds could have passed, and to Elle it
seemed like ten hours as they faced off against each
other. Just when she was sure he would back down,
Jordan took a deep breath and shocked her
by sweeping her up over his shoulder. Too
astonished to fight back, she found herself carried,
fireman-style, through the saloon doors. When
she heard the hoots and hollering of the men inside,
she struggled to break free. But Jordan had a
death grip on her, and his arms and back took the
punches she delivered as though they were mere
annoyances. He even managed to wrap her
skirt around her legs and immobilize them against
him.
  "Put me down!"
  "I want a room for the night," he
announced, a statement that brought even more howls of
appreciation.
  "Put me down, you jackass," she demanded,
more embarrassed than she had ever been in her
life. She pounded his back for emphasis and
tried kicking his groin.
  Her skirt absorbed most of the kick and he
merely grunted at her attempt to abuse his
back.
  "With bath?" a man's voice asked.
Elle could hear the laughter in the voice.
  She could also hear Jordan inhale, as if
smelling the surrounding air. "Definitely with
bath," he announced to the renewed laughter of the
males around him.
  "I'll kill you," Elle muttered,
absolutely mortified by the scene taking place
and tried to elbow his head. It only caused his
hat to fall off and the simpletons around her
to snigger when she missed. "Help! Somebody
help me."
  "A real hellcat, you got there," some idiot
observed.
  "You don't know the half of it," Jordan
answered, scooping up a room key and shifting
her on his shoulder.
  Elle grunted as his bone pressed in against her
stomach. She would never forgive him for this. Not ever.
  "Fourth door on the right," the first voice said.
"I'll send up a girl with a bath after you get
her calmed down some. She looks more pissed than
a rattler at high noon."
  Elle lifted her face and screamed, "I
am! Isn't someone going to help me?"
  Her already flushed face took on an even
brighter hue when a loud male voice replied,
"I'll help you, honey. When your man gets
tired, give me a call."
  She would not cry. She refused to give them the
satisfaction. She didn't gather her defenses
so much for herself, but for every female that had been
subjected to the arrogant male supremacy of the
nineteenth century. Raising her head as
Jordan climbed the first step, she looked out to the
group of drunken, leering faces and cried, "Go
to hell, you ignorant cretins."
  It didn't matter that her statement only
caused more whistles, howls and catcalls. She
felt vindicated.
  Jordan opened the door and walked to the bed.
Without ceremony, he flipped her over and
deposited her on top of it. For just a moment,
she couldn't get her breath and she grabbed her
solar-plexus in pain as Jordan went back and
closed the door.
  "You son of a bitch," she gasped out as she
tried to sit up.
  "You brought that on yourself," he answered, and it
further annoyed Elle that he didn't sound out of
breath. What the hell was the man made
of? Steel?
  But this was no Superman, just Jordan
McCabe, an unsophisticated backwoods
cattle rancher, and she vowed that he would learn he
had met his match in a woman.
  "Get out," she ordered, needing more time
to formulate a plan.
  "I'll wait until your bath is brought
up," he said, locking the door and sitting in a
wicker rocker by the window.
  His gaze never left hers as she brought her
legs over the side of the bed. She was frustrated
by the fact that when he had dumped her onto the
mattress, her skirt had flown up to her chest,
revealing her legs and everything else underneath. But
his face was a picture of composure as he
annoyingly rocked.
  "And then what?" she challenged, while pushing
her hair back off her face so she could see him
better. "Do you intend to tie me up? Keep me
a prisoner in here until morning?"
  "That depends on you," he said calmly.
  "I hate you," she answered, and meant every word.
She resented that she felt powerless and had
resorted to a childish reply. But at that moment
she did hate him, and vowed that before the night was
over she would extract her revenge.
  A smile crept over her features as a
soft knock came to the door. An idea was
quickly forming.
  When Jordan rose to answer it, he said,
"I'll leave you to your bath, and I'll send up
your trunk. Don't try to escape. There
isn't a man in this town that would help and you'll
only make it worse for yourself."
  He waited until the young, frightened Mexican
girl had left the buckets of steaming water on
the floor and hastily retreated back beyond the
door. Just before leaving himself, Jordan said,
"I'll look in on you at dinnertime, and then
maybe we can discuss this more civilly."
  She didn't answer him. She could only stare
as he closed the door and locked it from the
outside.
  She sat on the bed, looking down at the
multicolored rag rug under her feet. He had
done this to her, after everything they had been through together.
He had totally humiliated her in front of
everyone. It was only turnabout fair-play that
Mister Jordan--I'm so superior--
McCabe experience the same.
  She knew just how to do it.
  For just a moment, the night of her birthday, he
had shown her his vulnerable point. She had spent
too many years in business, looking for just that, not
to recognize it now.
  Her smile increased as she rose and picked
up a heavy pail of hot water. Pouring it into the
high-backed copper tub, Elle started humming,
Momma, don't let your babies grow up
to be Cowboys. ... It was quickly becoming her
favorite song. Good ole Willy ... how
true his words.
  For tonight, Jordan Dillon McCabe was
going to be one sorry, miserable cowboy.
  It wasn't just a wish. It was a damned vow.

              Chapter 17

  She sat in the rocker, waiting.
  Everything was in readiness. The small wooden
table was set for two with the best the saloon could
offer. The bourbon stood, unopened, between two
glasses. A slight breeze ruffled the thin
white curtains, taking some of the heat from the room.
She'd wanted everything to be right and had set the
scene accordingly.
  Nervous, Elle rose and hurried to the
mirror for the fifth time. She checked her
reflection with a businesslike detachment. There
wasn't any vanity involved.
  This wasn't a seduction.
  It was a mission.
  Even though she was hot and nervous, she pinched
her cheeks to add color and highlight her eyes.
What she wouldn't have given for her little
black-and-white bag of makeup. She would really
have been able to show him ... but then she thought back
to this afternoon when they had caught up with the herd. At the
time she had wondered what had caused the change in
the men who worked for Jordan. It wasn't until
he had dumped her in this room that she had looked
into a mirror for the first time in over a week. What
she had seen had nearly struck her dumb.
  She had barely recognized the tired, haggard
face that had stared back at her. She looked
... horrible. Only hours ago she had stood
before this very mirror and cried over the transformation.
She remembered bringing her hand up to her
sunburned cheeks and touching the
freckles that had disappeared with childhood, but now
resurfaced with a vengeance. Her hair, fallen out
of its bun on her trip upstairs, had been
matted. Matted. Like an abandoned animal.
There were circles under her eyes, and her lips were
nearly white from dryness. Even her hands looked
like a stranger's. Her skin was cracked; her
nails were broken and split. It had seemed, at
the time, an impossible task to transform from a
hag into a seductress in one evening. But then her
gaze had fallen on Cynthia's trunk.
Sitting on top was her hat, the one that had
dropped into the street when Jordan had grabbed
her. She had picked it up and put it on. The
woman who stared back startled her.
  She looked just like all the other women she had
seen on the trail. She looked like a pioneer.
Sturdy. Weathered. Durable. And that was what had
brought about her acceptance by the men. They didn't
see her as the stuttering, confused Easterner. They
saw a woman who had proved her worth
by enduring, and that accomplishment demanded their
respect. In spite of her plan to humiliate
their boss, Elle took satisfaction in having
earned the men's admiration. The past three weeks
hadn't been easy, but she had also proved something
to herself. She was a survivor ... and she could even
survive this damage to her appearance. She had
hot water, clean clothes and Cynthia's
trunk.
  It only took three hours of scrubbing,
creaming and brushing to bring about the change. She had
even found a small vial of flowery perfume
hidden under heavy woolen stockings, and took it as
a good sign.
  Elle inhaled the scent that still lingered on her
body. Everything was set.
  It was as if a stage director acknowledged
her words and pointed to the door, for at that moment she
heard the key being inserted into the lock. Racing
back to the rocker, she barely managed to spread
the white dress around her ankles when Jordan
walked into the room.
  A tight knot had formed in his belly as he
opened the door. He half expected to find a
pail of bathwater thrown into his face.
Elizabeth was not a woman to take lightly, and
she'd been fighting mad when he'd left.
  But what he found made him stop for a moment in
surprise. She was seated in front of the
window, gently rocking. Catching the evening
breeze. It was a portrait of serenity ... and,
he reluctantly admitted, one of unexpected
beauty. Her hair hung around her shoulders in
soft waves that caught the light from the nearby
lamp. She wore the white dress from Alexander.
It made her look delicate and feminine. As
she turned toward him, his breath caught in his
throat when she smiled.
  "Hello, Jordan."
  Her voice was low and peaceful, almost
welcoming. Instinct told him to be careful. This
was definitely not the woman he had left three
hours ago. Besides looking as if she had spent a
life of leisure, her attitude was totally
unfamiliar.
  Closing the door behind him, he remembered
to lock it and pocket the key before coming further into the
room. "Elizabeth." He said her name
calmly, though every hunch he had was telling him she
was up to something. No one could make this kind of a
transformation in three hours. This woman had been
ready to kill him, now she looked ready to--
to what? Was it only the memory of her kiss that
made him think she also had other things on her
mind? Shaking off the notion, Jordan walked up
to the table set for dinner.
  "They told me downstairs that you had ordered
food. There are two places," he noted,
lifting the edge of the white napkin to peek at the
fried chicken underneath.
  "You said you were coming back," she began as she
rose from the rocker. He noticed she wore no
shoes. "I assumed you wanted to continue our
discussion over dinner." She stopped in front of
him and he found himself inhaling the flowery scent of
her. "Was I wrong."
  He was almost mesmerized by the seductive look
in her eyes and quickly shook his head. "That's
fine," he said and pulled out a chair for her. He
wanted to put distance between them, even if it was only
a table.
  She was maddeningly slow as she swept herself
into her chair, and he felt his blood thicken when
she murmured a polite "thank you" and smiled
up at him. It was that smile that unnerved him.
Gone was any trace of anger. In its place was
a warmth that he could only regard with suspicion.
  Jordan sat down opposite her. As he
placed the napkin on his thigh, his
eyebrow rose in question while he watched her open
the bottle of bourbon.
  "A drink?" she asked sweetly, and
innocently, as if she did that sort of thing every
day.
  Cautious, he nodded and watched as she poured
a good measure into his glass. It further
surprised him to see her fill her own with the same
amount.
  Raising hers into the air, she smiled and said,
"A truce, then?"
  Now he knew she was up to something, but decided
to allow her to play out her game. Lifting his
glass to hers, he said, "A truce," though he
knew no such thing could possibly exist.
Elizabeth was no ordinary woman, and he
acknowledged that even an ordinary woman might have
a reason to be angry over being hauled through a
saloon and locked into a room. Still, it would be
amusing to lock wits with her, and he had to admit
his curiosity played a major role in his
acquiescence. If nothing else, Elizabeth
Mackenzie was never boring.
  As he sipped his bourbon, he watched as she
did the same while trying to mask her distaste.
He couldn't help smirking. "If you don't like
it, why drink it?"
  She swallowed and attempted to smile. "I'm
just used to mixing it with ginger ale, that's all."
  "Ginger ale?"
  She nodded. "I remember the first time I had
to order a drink in public. I had no idea
what to ask for, and then a well-dressed man
next to me said to the bartender--bourbon and ginger,
with a twist of lemon. I liked the way it sounded,
so I did the same." She laughed and shook her
head. "I was surprised that I also liked the way
it tasted. I've been ordering them ever since."
  He leaned closer to the table. "Do you do that
often? Walk into saloons and order drinks?"
  She laughed again, this time low and seductive, and
he was annoyed that a quick response coiled in his
groin and slowly spread down his legs. He'd
obviously been without a woman for too long.
  "Oh, Jordan ..." She leaned back in
her chair and grinned. "You're such an innocent."
  "I beg your pardon?" His knife and fork were
poised in midair. That was one word a woman had
never before applied to him.
  She brought the glass back up to her
mouth and emptied it. He watched, astonished, as
she nearly slammed it back onto the table and
gasped for breath.
  "It's really got a kick, doesn't it?"
she asked in a hoarse voice. Her eyes were
actually watering and yet she was still trying to show that
she could handle the liquor.
  "Maybe you should eat something," he suggested, as
she picked up the bottle and refilled her
glass. Ten minutes of this and she would be drunk.
  "Go ahead and eat," she offered
magnanimously with a wave of her hand.
  "I was talking about you."
  She looked surprised. "Oh." With
extreme care she lifted the napkin away and
picked up her knife and fork.
  He noticed that she used the utensils with a
daintiness that would have made his mother smile with
approval. Somewhere, Elizabeth had learned
proper manners. And that just didn't fit with a
woman who would feel comfortable walking into a bar and
ordering hard liquor.
  "You never answered my question," he said after
cutting into his own chicken.
  She smiled ... again. "And which question was that?"
  "Do you often walk into drinking establishments and
order bourbon? And why am I an innocent for
asking?"
  "That's two questions."
  He merely looked at her. Waiting.
  She shrugged.
  She wiped the corner of her mouth with her napkin
and replaced it in her lap. "Okay. No, I
don't often walk into drinking establishments, as you
call them. And I said you were an innocent because
you're judging me by standards from this time, when women were
considered little more than chattel."
  "Chattel?"
  "You know--peasants, workers, possessions--"
  "I understand the meaning of the word," he interrupted.
"What I don't understand is how you can make that
statement. Have I ever treated you like that?"
  Her lips moved into what was now an annoying
smile. "Perhaps I'm referring to when you threw me
over your shoulder and carried me through a room
filled with hooting males. Or, possibly
I'm hinting at the actions of the man who dumped
me on that bed and locked me in this room. I
believe I'm still locked in. Is that
correct?"
  "Elizabeth, you were ..." His voice trailed
into silence.
  "Yes?"
  She had touched a nerve, and yet he couldn't
deny that her words carried a ring of truth behind them.
"You were unreasonable," he finally answered. "You
wouldn't listen to reason. You left me with no
choice."
  She laughed. She actually laughed.
  "You see, Jordan. That's why you're an
innocent. You think of women as flighty
creatures with an inferior intellect. Let me
tell you something. I happen to be the top
salesperson for a multi-million-dollar
corporation, and would you like to know how I achieved
that?" She didn't wait for a reply, and he, quite
honestly, had no idea what she was talking about.
  "I got there," she continued, "by using my
brain. By outwitting men ... just like you. Men who
harbored the preconceived notion that the male is
born superior."
  "You are a suffragette!" he announced
triumphantly while picking up his glass.
Without thought he threw back his head and gulped the
fiery liquid. "I knew it," he muttered,
irritated that his voice sounded husky and rough from
the alcohol that continued to burn his throat.
  "I'm a feminist," she said sweetly. "You
see, in my time--"
  He held up his hand. "We are not back to this,
are we?"
  She raised her eyebrows in question.
  "Please tell me you are not about to state that you
are from the future again. Surely now, after everything
you've been through in the last few weeks, you can see
how ludicrous that statement is."
  She shook her head as if in sorrow for his
lack of intelligence. Everything she did, every
action, every statement, proved an annoyance.
  "I fail to see how your denial renders that
statement false."
  "Alcohol does this to you," he stated, pointing
his finger at the bottle. "Every time I've seen you
drink, you start talking like this. About coming from the
future. Some people see pink elephants. You
think you've traveled back in time."
  Ignoring his outburst, she continued, "As I was
saying. In my time, the year nineteen hundred and
ninety-one, men are just now beginning to understand. You--
all males, really--can't be held
to blame. It's evolutionary."
  "What?" Now he was bewildered, though he
hated to admit it.
  "You're all confused. You don't know where you
belong anymore. And it's worse for the men in my
time."
  He didn't even bother to correct her. It
was obvious she was on a roll and no amount of
reasoning was going to stop her. Forgetting his food,
he refilled his glass and settled back in his
chair to hear her out.
  "It's worse?" he asked, ready to be
entertained.
  She nodded and sipped her bourbon. "Since
prehistoric times, homo sapiens have--"
  "Wait! wait ... home sap--?"
  "Homo sapiens," she corrected. "Man.
Early man." She appeared frustrated and said in
a schoolmarmish tone, "Cavemen? First human
beings descended from the apes?"
  His mouth hung open. "You believe that men
descended from apes?"
  She laughed. "Not just men, though I've known more
than a few that have acted like it. Everyone. Males
and females. It's been proven that our
ancestors are apes."
  He sat up straighter, clearly offended.
"My ancestors are originally from Scotland and
Ireland. We have a family tree that dates
back to 1612."
  She nodded. "Yes, well, humankind has
a family tree that dates back about four
million years. With skeletal remains that
indicate I'm right, but I'm getting off the
subject. We were discussing the evolution of men's
psyche, not their bodies."
  She again sipped her drink, her food
completely forgotten. "Where was I?" she asked
herself. "Oh, yes. Since caveman times,
human culture has developed into three
stages. In earliest societies we had the
hunter, a man who was valued for his ability
to bring in wild animals for food. This man was
seen as important. And the bigger he was, the
stronger he proved himself, the more his worth. Then we
had the farmer who controlled his food source, and the
bigger and stronger he was the larger the field he could
monopolize. The larger the field, the more wealthy
and respected he became. If he couldn't do it
himself, he dominated others to cultivate
his land for him. And then comes the warrior, and the
importance of his size and his skill to handle
heavy, weighty weapons is obvious. He's
needed to protect the land and those who inhabited it."
  Enjoying her recitation in spite of himself, he
said the first word that came into his head.
"Fascinating." And he wasn't sure if he was
referring to the story, or her.
  She grinned. "But then comes the Industrial
Revolution."
  "The what?"
  "Industrial Revolution. When people learned
to run machinery with energy from coal and other fuel.
Don't you see, Jordan, that's when everything
started to change."
  "I don't understand the point you're trying
to make."
  She took a deep breath and looked out to the
bedroom, as if thinking of an explanation. "In
my time size and strength mean something entirely
different. A woman doesn't need a man
to provide meat for her table. She can do it herself.
A hundred-pound female can sit behind the steering
wheel of a huge machine and harvest an entire
field in less than one day. A five-foot
Vietnamese woman can pick up an M16
rifle and bring down a two-hundred
and-fifty-pound man with one shot. We've learned
to master the machinery."
  He could feel her looking at him with almost pity
as she continued. "Everything is so different. Where
I come from, sometimes the bigger a man is, the
stronger he is, the more he's perceived as being less
intelligent. In my time, size and physical
strength isn't valued. Intelligence is. For
someone in my time to be successful, they need
to possess intelligence, diplomacy, and the
ability to nurture either an idea, or a nation."
She leaned closer to the table, her face intense,
almost triumphant. "And, Jordan, women
possess those qualities in abundance. We are
finally equal, only men haven't realized it
yet."
  He sat back, studying her. She had angered
him, confused him, fascinated him, and now demanded
his respect. In spite of himself he found that he
did. "Elizabeth. I didn't understand half of
what you said, but I have to admire your ability
to weave a tale."
  She looked sad. "It isn't just a
tale. It's the future. It's what's going
to happen, Jordan."
  "Then I'm glad I won't be alive to see
it. You can't disrupt the laws of nature without
disaster. If what you say is true then why would a
woman even need a man? And if she doesn't,
then that spells the end of humanity, doesn't it?
Males and females, together, that's humanity."
  "A woman needs a man to conceive a child,
to continue the race. A woman needs a man to be
her partner, to share her life, if she chooses.
But she doesn't need one to survive."
  "And why haven't you chosen anyone to share your
life, Elizabeth?" His voice was low, almost a
whisper.
  She wasn't prepared for it. "I don't know
what you mean," she said evasively and picked up
her drink.
  "I think you do," he countered. "You're
pretty enough to have attracted suitors. When you
want, you can be pleasant, even charming. And yet,
here you are. Thirty years old. Unmarried.
Why?"
  She nearly spit out her drink in surprise.
"I'm not exactly over the hill," she contested,
while patting her chin with her napkin. "My
God, you make me sound like my life is over."
  It was his turn to smile. "No. I'm just
curious to know why you've chosen to remain
unmarried."
  "I still have time ..." Her voice trailed off.
"Why am I even explaining myself to you? The
better question is why you chose to marry someone you
haven't even met. I could say the same of you,
Jordan. You're reasonably handsome. When you
make an effort you can be pleasant, even charming.
And yet, here you are, sitting across from a woman that
you thought was your mail order bride. Why? Why
marry a stranger?"
  His eyes narrowed with anger and Elle sat
back in her chair, sipping her drink, pleased that
she had turned the tables on him. For the moment she
forgot about his seduction. Now she was just curious.
  "You do that very well, you know. Evade
answers." He took a deep breath and added,
"If you must know, I decided it was time to marry and
wanted someone that shared a common background."
  "And so you sent away for her, like ordering a
pedigreed puppy?"
  "Cynthia Warden comes from an
excellent family. From her letters I was able
to tell that she possessed grace and kindness and
intelligence. Those are qualities that I
desired in a wife."
  "But she didn't have the guts to make it
to Kansas," Elle blurted out before she could stop
herself. Why did hearing Jordan extol the
woman's virtues anger her? Why should she even
care what he thought? Refusing to explore the
reasoning behind her outburst, Elle murmured,
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."
  He nodded. "No, you shouldn't. I'm sure
she thought she was doing the only thing she could.
Whatever her reasons."
  "That's very charitable of you."
  He shrugged and finished off his second drink
before refilling his glass.
  Forgetting the knife and fork, Elle picked the
chicken up in her hands and tore off a chunk of
white meat. As she chewed, she studied his face,
a face that had been scrubbed clean. He had
shaved. His hair was cut. His black shirt and
pants were new. He looked ... almost modern,
like a man from her time. But it was that face that
fascinated her. She was surprised to see he
wasn't angry. He appeared thoughtful, as if
considering her words. She was not, however, prepared for
his next question.
  "Why haven't you married, Elizabeth?"
  She found it hard to swallow the chicken. Dear
God, the man just wouldn't quit. "I suppose
I haven't found anyone I wanted to share the
rest of my life with, that's all."
  He nodded. "But you aren't getting any younger,
you know? Soon you'll be past childbearing age.
Don't you want children? Or doesn't that fit
into your suffragette beliefs?"
  She merely stared at him, and then she said it.
Perhaps it was the bourbon that loosened her tongue.
She would never know, nor, at the moment, did she
care. "I can't have children. I never will."
  His mouth opened, as if to say something and then
clamped shut. He gulped his drink and
reconsidered. "How can you say that? How do you
know? Unless ..." He left the meaning hanging in
the air.
  "No. I haven't consciously been trying
to become pregnant. I don't go around
attacking men in an effort to prove differently.
It's me. I've had tests. Medical
tests."
  "What kind of medical tests can prove that?
I think you're wrong, Elizabeth--"
  "Look," she interrupted, "I had an ...
an operation, and it was botched, done incorrectly,
and I was left ... left sterile." She was so
close to tears that she pushed the chair away from the
table and ran to the window. Maybe it was the drink that
made her feel so emotional, so vulnerable. She
just knew she had to breathe in fresh air, clear her
head and her lungs--anything to wipe out the
memory.
  Gulping in the night air, she tried to stop the
tears. My God, after all these years it still
hurt. How long was she supposed to pay? Did
the guilt never end?
  "What kind of operation?" He had come up behind
her. He was standing so close that his voice was at
her left ear. She couldn't turn around. She
didn't want to face him.
  "Please, don't pry," she said in between deep
breaths. She must control herself. She could never
tell him the truth. Another woman might
understand, but not him. He would never understand the shock of
an unwanted pregnancy, the stark terror of being
alone with the most horrendous decision pressing down
on you night and day.
  "When I came home from the war, I learned the
truth about my sister's death," he whispered in a
voice filled with pain.
  She listened as he continued to speak.
  "Sheilah was on the brink of womanhood when
I left. God, I was so protective of her.
My parents gave a huge party when I went off
to war and I can even remember not letting the
Walken boys fill in her dance card until I
had talked to them first. She was my sister and I
wanted only the best for her. I wanted ..."
His voice stopped and Elle held her breath as
she stared out the window and waited for him to continue.
  "When I came home to Atlanta, when it was
all over and everything I knew and valued was dead
or destroyed, it was then my uncle told me the
truth. Sheilah was ... was raped by a Union
soldier after my father died." His voice was
strained, as though it were the first time he had ever said
those words aloud. "Rather than telling my mother, when
she discovered she was pregnant, she went to a ...
a woman. My beautiful sister, so young, so
innocent, who never hurt anyone in her
short life, bled to death in the back room of a
shanty."
  Elle spun around and saw tears in the corners
of his eyes and her own tears fell over her
eyelids and down her cheeks.
  "Jordan ... I ..." She didn't know
if she could force words past the raw tightness in her
throat.
  He brought his hands up to wipe away her
tears. Holding her face he said in a rough,
emotional voice, "Don't you see, Lizzie,
you're alive. Alive. That's all that
matters."
  Her chin quivered as he brought her face toward
him. When he lowered his mouth to hers she welcomed
him with a fierce longing that took away her breath.
At her response, his kiss deepened and she
gloried in the feel of his hands as they traced her
jaw line and slid down her neck to the top of her
dress. With a frantic need of his own, he tore
at the buttons until her dress parted and
revealed that she wore nothing underneath. He pushed
the material down her shoulders and stood back,
staring at her.
  "My God, you're beautiful."
  She was breathing heavily, and still fighting tears,
tears that were so close she had to swallow several
times before she could mutter, "Don't say anything
... Please."
  This time it was Elle who reached for him. She was
driven by a need so strong, so intense, that her
brain forgot all about her plans for revenge.
Now she could only think about being held, wanted,
loved ... something so basic, so vital, that no
human being can survive without it.
  With total abandon, Elle led him to the bed.
She sat down on the edge of the mattress and
impatiently watched as Jordan unbuttoned his
shirt. She prayed he wouldn't say anything
to break the spell that surrounded them. It was an
aura of raw excitement and sensuality, and she
didn't want anything, not even his voice, to bring
her back to reality. When he pulled the loose
shirt away from his waist, Elle reached out and
buried her fingers in the thick, dark hair on his
chest. Breathing heavily, she stared into his eyes
and was struck by the intense hunger she saw
reflected there. He never pulled his gaze away
from hers as he slid the thin leather belt through its
silver buckle. That act, so simple
and natural and totally male, marked the point of
no return. Unable to watch anymore, Elle
closed her eyes and slowly sank back onto the
bed. Within seconds, she could feel his hot breath
on her skin as he bent over her and she swiftly
inhaled the clean scent of him. When his lips
touched the inside of her knee, she cried out in
pleasure. His mouth, his breath, both hot and
wet, became a searing brand that traveled slowly,
maddeningly, up over her stomach and ribcage
until settling at the tender place between her
breasts. She opened her eyes and stared at the
ceiling above her, not really seeing the fading
plaster. Nothing mattered any longer, she thought,
as she wound her fingers through the silkiness of his
hair. There was only the wanting, the hunger deep
inside her.
  With a swiftness born of passion kept too
long under control, Elle hugged him to her and
turned over. The white dress draped open,
revealing her, yet she kept it on as she bent
over him. As he pushed it down her back,
Elle stared into his eyes. She felt his
heartbeat pounding against her breasts, reminding her of
his words. You're alive. That's all that
matters. His hands grabbed her shoulders and brought
her closer, so that her unbound hair formed a dark
tent around them.
  And it was then she breathed the words into his mouth.
  "I want you. I don't care anymore about
anything else. Not tonight."
  It was fast and frenzied. Quick, like summer
lightning, and just as hot. For the first time in her
life, Elle became the aggressor. She was
free, free to be anyone she wanted. And she
wanted him. There were no words. None were needed.
They communicated in the most primordial way--
with their bodies. The mere grazing of his skin over
hers created a hot current of intimacy that
quickly turned into an ancient dance, a dance that had
been choreographed through the ages by instinct and
longing.
  She felt free of herself, of all the bindings and
restrictions that had held her back in the past.
Here, in this time, she was able to let go, to use and
enjoy the sheer pleasure of two bodies moving as
one. She gasped with astonishment at how perfect
they were together, how her body seemed whole and
complete when he was a part of it. There was no
reasoning behind it. She only knew it was
right. She was relentless, teasing him with her body,
her mouth, her hands ... until he was with her, at
a point of near pleasurable pain that must be eased.
He took her hands and tightly clasped them within
his, staring into her face, holding her gaze,
watching her, wanting her, letting her body move
over him. It was as if he'd sensed she had to do this
her way and was giving her the freedom. She knew
it all without words. In her life she had never
experienced such a moment, a timeless slice of joy
that she could share with another.
  Filled with the power of overwhelming sensations,
Elle cried out as her blood became thick and
hot and heavy, rushing to where they were joined together.
She called out his name as wave after wave of
exquisite pleasure washed over her, through her,
and transferred to him. Knowing the enchantment would be
swift, Elle forced her eyes open. She
wanted to remember it all--the astonishment on his
face, the passion in his eyes--when she brought him
along with her. It was a moment to stir her soul, the
end of a precious journey that they had completed
together.
  She collapsed against him, spent, satisfied,
totally in awe, and he brought her to the mattress.
She laid her head back against the pillows. Her
eyes were closed. Her heart pounded against her
ribcage. Her body still trembled. She couldn't
think ... not yet. It was too overwhelming.
  He continued to hold her, stroking the hair
back from her face. "My God, Lizzie,
I--"
  "Shh ..." She was reluctant to hear his
words, scared he would break the spell and she
wasn't willing to return to reality just yet.
Instead of words, she captured his hand at her
temple, kissed it gently, and wrapped his arm
around her as she turned on her side away from
him. She reveled in the heat of his body against her
back. There was something so close, so intimate,
about it and she knew whatever they would say to one
another would have to wait. Snuggling into him, Elle
closed her eyes and released her breath.
  It was quiet, and peaceful, and beautiful in its
own way.
  She wanted it to last forever.


              Chapter 18

  She felt the kisses at the back of her
neck, light and feathery, and a chill of pleasure
raced through her arms. Drifting up from a deep
sleep, she moaned and pressed into the warmth behind
her. It was a wonderful dream, one that she was
reluctant to surrender, and it wasn't until
she sensed a masculine arm wrapping itself around her
waist that she opened her eyes. It was dark, the
middle of the night, and the oil in the lamp next to the
table had burned out.
  This was definitely not a dream. The scents and
textures were too real, too vivid ...
  Suddenly, images came flooding into her
brain and she clamped her eyes shut with
embarrassment. Dear God ... what had she
done? It was the bourbon. The loneliness. No.
The bourbon. That had to be it. Jordan. Her.
Together. Not just together, but together. Man and woman
together. Oh, please, somebody save me from this
...
  "Are you awake?" His voice was a whisper
by her ear.
  She shivered as his breath sent traitorous,
delicious waves of pleasure that traveled with
lightning speed to her thighs.
  She moaned again, a sort of noncommittal
noise. What was he going to say? Fear clutched
her heart as she waited.
  "Am I allowed to speak now?" he asked, and
she could detect a note of humor in his words.
  Elle remembered almost forbidding him to talk
during their lovemaking and afterwards. My God, she
must have seemed like a wanton to him. He could never
understand--
  "Elizabeth, I have to--"
  She turned over and pressed a finger against his
lips. "Don't talk about it, Jordan.
Please. I don't want to hear you say that you
regret it, not even that it was the most wonderful
experience of your life. It happened. We're
both adults and--"
  "Could I say something, please?" he
interrupted.
  She held her breath.
  "I only wanted to ask if you would lift your
head. My arm is asleep."
  "Huh?" Even though it was dark,
Elle could see his face reflected in the
moonlight. His expression was half pained,
half amused. "What? Your arm?" She raised
her head and watched as he slid his arm away from
her neck. She'd been sleeping on him!
  Inhaling through clenched teeth, Jordan rubbed his
shoulder to bring feeling back into his limb. There
was no mistaking his pain.
  "Oh, God, I'm sorry." Closing the
front of her dress, she leaned on her elbow
to see him better. "What can I do? Do you want
me to rub it for you?"
  "Please. Don't touch it!" he gasped, and
almost laughed.
  Elle found her own lips curling into a
smile. And here she had thought he was about to tell
her that last night had been magical. Or
worse. It could have been a curt "thank you,
ma'am. Do you remember where I left my
pants?" Secretly, she knew she had been
fearing the latter.
  Relief that she wouldn't have to face the answer
enveloped her and she relaxed. She even giggled.
"Why didn't you wake me up sooner?"
  He glanced at her. "I tried. You were sound
asleep. Snoring to wake the dead, I might
add."
  Her back straightened. "I was not," she
protested. "I do not snore."
  He flexed his fingers. "Well, you did tonight."
  He was definitely amused and Elle gritted
her teeth. This was not exactly the impression
she'd wanted to make. "It must have been the
bourbon. I'm sorry."
  "Don't be." Satisfied with the mobility of
his fingers, Jordan reached over and pushed a long
curl behind her ear. "Don't apologize tonight,
Lizzie Mackenzie," he said softly. He
did not let go of her hair. Instead he played
with the end of it.
  She wished she could see him better, for in the
moonlight he looked ... he looked tender,
almost romantic. Like he wanted her. Again ...
  Surely it was just her imagination, yet an
excitement spread through her body and she had
to fight it off. "Don't call me Lizzie,"
she said. It was the first thing she could think of--and she
certainly didn't want to think of the heat coming from his
body, the masculine scent of him, the way his
finger was now tracing the curve of her chin.
  "You don't like the name Lizzie?" His voice
was soft, so soft she had to strain to hear it.
  She shook her head. "Ahh, no. It, ahh
..." She couldn't think straight when his finger was
gliding over her skin to her throat. The heat coming
from him was unbelievable. Maybe he had a
fever. Maybe she had a fever. She
suppressed a moan. "It reminds me of
Lizzie Borden," she blurted out, desperate
to say anything. "You know? Lizzie Borden
took an ax and gave her mother forty whacks?"
  He chuckled and she felt idiotic for quoting
the childhood rhyme. "Well, it does," she
said defensively.
  "Do you know what it reminds me of?" he asked
in that low voice.
  She didn't say anything. In truth, she was
afraid to speak.
  He continued as though she had nodded. "It
reminds me of Elizabeth when she's warm, when
her guard is down. When she's happy ... like a
young girl." He leaned over and kissed the tip of
her nose. "That's when you're at your best,
Lizzie."
  She felt like crying, or hugging him. She did
neither. She stayed completely still as his lips
kissed her cheeks, her eyes, her temples and
finally her mouth. Unlike before, this time it was soft
and, somehow, more intimate than when passion had been
behind it.
  "You are the most remarkable woman I have ever
known," he whispered. "You're warm and witty,
fiery and intelligent. You're stubborn and yet
giving. You fight for equality as if you want
to be a man and in the next half hour you're the
most feminine woman I've ever known ..."
  He was making love to her with his words. And it was
working. His finger continued its journey down her arm
and over her hip. Slow and gentle and teasing. She
was powerless to stop him, nor did she want to.
  "Lie back," he gently ordered.
  She stared into his eyes and was sure she saw
something there beyond desire. She was afraid to put a
name on it. It wasn't love. It couldn't be
love. "Jordan, I ..."
  This time it was he who touched her lips. "Shh.
Don't say anything. Just lie back."
  She did as she was told. She could feel her
heart beating faster, her blood racing through her
veins with anticipation. He was letting
her know that he would take over, he would direct,
just as she had earlier. Now it was his turn.
  As if reading her thoughts, Jordan slid his
body over hers.
  Face to face, heart to heart, they stared at
each other until Jordan started to grin. Dear
God, Elle thought, he looks so young, as if
nothing in the world matters but this moment.
  "Listen to me," he whispered against her lips.
"Before? It was wonderful, but it was lust." He
kissed the corner of her mouth and cradled her
face between his hands. "This, Lizzie Mackenzie
... this is making love."

  There was something so peaceful about dawn--the way
light slowly crept into the room, changing the
colors from a soothing gray into the warm hues of
another day. Each sunrise the world awakened with the
same sounds ... the song of birds, the barking of
dogs. And yet this morning, Elle Mackenzie
was certain no other day could possibly compare.
  She sat in the chair by the bed, staring at the man
who still slept soundly. She was still, quiet as the
morning itself, hugging her knees to her chest, as a
warm summer breeze blew in from the window behind
her. She was also crying.
  Tears ran down her cheeks and fell onto
her arms. She didn't even bother to wipe them
away as she continued to stare at Jordan. How
could it be possible? she wondered. After all this
time? And yet she knew with a certainty that her
life was forever changed.
  She was hopelessly in love.
  Nothing in her life ever came easy. She'd
always had to work for everything, but this? This took
virtually no effort at all. It just was. There
was no explaining it, nor had she ever been this
positive of something before. It shouldn't be. There was
every reason to deny it had happened. He was from
another time, for God's sake. He wasn't an
urban corporate executive. He was a
cattle rancher. From Texas. They didn't
share any common interests. He'd never heard of
Motown, the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, or
Elton John, although he'd probably hate
rap music as much as she did. More than
likely, he'd never been to the symphony or an
art museum and she knew his preference would run
toward thick, artery-clogging beef steaks rather than
delicate French food. It was
crazy. They were total opposites. He was
capable of extreme violence. She was as
passive as the proverbial dove. There was
absolutely no reasoning behind it. Except that
her heart was demanding she listen to the truth. She
loved Jordan Dillon McCabe. And there was
no denying it any longer.
  But did he love her? Now that was the
million-dollar question.
  Again, her heart told her he did. He had
to after last night. In the quiet of the morning,
alone with her thoughts, Elle found honesty came
easy. Last night had been ... magical. This
cattle rancher had shown her that making love could
be tender, yet thrilling, overwhelming and at the
same time soothing; passionate and also capable of
stirring the soul. He had made her cry out at the
pleasure and laugh at the humanness. It was a
night of beauty and enchantment, and, she willingly
admitted, one of love.
  He simply had to love her. She couldn't have
misread that. As she watched him stir, Elle
knew she must tell him ... when the timing was right.
  She was crying. He could see it right away.
He had awakened with a sense of ease, finally cast
free of the ghosts of his past. With Elizabeth he
had found something more important than himself. Last
night he had concentrated on her enjoyment, showing
her the pleasure that could be achieved between a man and a
woman. And yet somewhere, in the middle of the night,
he had been struck by the thought that no other woman
had given him such a sense of power. He realized
the truth that there is more pleasure in giving than in
receiving, for whatever he gave was returned to him
tenfold. He couldn't help but compare her
to Charlotte. Perhaps it was unfair to remember his
wife at such a time, but it was inevitable.
Charlotte performed her wifely duties
by submitting to him; she was never an active
participant. He had tried. She had even
tried. But he always felt she viewed the entire
process as distasteful, although necessary to produce
children.
  Last night had been different. No one could
ever accuse him of being a romantic, yet with
Elizabeth he had felt a part of something larger
than himself. It was as if they were partners. Perhaps it
was only foolishness on his part, yet she had
unlocked the anger that was strangling him, moving it
out of his heart to make way for her. It
made absolutely no sense. She was
probably crazy, at the very least suffering from
delusions. She was as different from him as night from
day. He craved stability and respectability.
Elizabeth claimed to be from the twentieth
century and flaunted a colorful vocabulary
and a suffragette mentality. But she also made
him happy. He had laughed last night. He
couldn't remember being that relaxed with a woman in a
very long time. Perhaps before the war ... and she stirred
up the totally male instinct to protect her and
make her happy. He wasn't sure what
deeper feeling he held for this incredible woman.
He only knew he didn't want her to leave.
Not now.
  But that was before he had seen her tears. There could
be only one reason behind them. She regretted
last night. A deep sadness invaded his soul as
he sat up and forced a smile. Perhaps he did
care for her more than he wanted to admit ... for
he was willing to let her go if that would bring her
happiness. How ironic to have found this remarkable
woman only now to lose her.
  "Good morning." He cleared his throat and
felt the beard on his chin.
  She smiled shyly. "Good morning."
  There was a moment of awkward silence and Elle
wondered how two people that had shared such an incredible
night of lovemaking could be so
uncommunicative. Determined to speak, she
squared her shoulders. "Are you hungry? There's
all that chicken from last night."
  He glanced at the table. "Maybe later.
Why were you crying, Elizabeth? Are you ashamed?"
  She was startled by his candor. Shaking her head,
she said, "No. I'm not ashamed. I ..." How
could she say that she loved him? God, it would
make her so vulnerable. What if he didn't
feel the same?
  He nodded his head, as if he understood her
inability to speak. Taking a deep breath, he
said, "Thank you for last night. It was ...
special. There's a stage leaving this afternoon for
Oklahoma City. You can get a train there for
back East if that's your wish."
  She straightened as if slapped. "I beg your
pardon?" she asked in a tight voice. "Back
East?"
  He looked confused. "That is where you said you were
from, isn't it? I naturally thought you'd
wish to return there."
  Elle stood up and held the front of her
dress firmly against her chest. "Oh, you did,
did you?" She walked over to the bottom of the bed
and picked up a ribbon. Throwing it into the opened
trunk, she added, "How thoughtful of you to obtain that
information. Have you made the arrangements already? Am
I being paid off, is that it?"
  "Elizabeth," he began, but she cut him
cold.
  "No. You listen to me, you egotistical
male." She started throwing hairbrush and mirror
into the trunk. "I have always been able to take care
of myself. I did it very well before you and your men
kidnapped me on this wild goose chase and
I'll do it again. I don't need your money, or
your advice. And don't you dare cheapen last
night by offering me tickets and transportation.
My God, what an idiot I am! Someday,
Jordan McCabe, somebody will teach you a
lesson. I'm only sorry I won't be around
to see it."
  "Elizabeth, listen to me. I've handled this
all wrong. I--"
  She picked up his boot and flung it at him.
Annoyed that he easily deflected it, her
voice rose to a shrill pitch. "Pick up your
things and get out. I don't want to hear anything
else you have to say. Just get the hell out!"
  Hurling the other boot into his lap, she
whirled around to the window and wrapped her arms around
her waist. She would not cry while he was in the
room. She didn't care if she had to bite through
her bottom lip to stop the tears. She wouldn't
give him the satisfaction of seeing her
unravel.
  His voice came from behind her. "My room is
down the hall. When you calm down, we'll
talk. You've completely misunderstood my
meaning--"
  "Get out of here!" she shouted. Dear
God, make him leave. It was only when she
heard the sound of the door closing that she turned
around.
  The room was empty. And the door unlocked.
  She was free.
  Elle sank back onto the bed and stared at the
door. Her heart was beating furiously against the
wall of her chest. Well, here it is ...
freedom. Now what do you want me
to do? Why did you bring me here? Why did I have
to go through all this, only to wind up alone again?
She looked up to the ceiling, her face distorted
with anger. What kind of God are you? Why
did you bring him into my life, only to take him
away? And what of the children? How am I supposed
to leave them now? Now that I love them.
  Filling with righteous hostility, Elle brought the
sheet up to wipe away her tears. Her eyes
closed as she inhaled the scent of him that still clung
to the thin cotton. Jordan ... the ache that
filled her chest was unbearable. It was like a tight
band of pain that clawed at her, reminding her of
what a fool she had been.
  Flinging the sheet aside, Elle abruptly
rose. "I'm getting the hell out of here," she
muttered and wiped at her nose with the back of her
hand. "No man is going to do this to me again," she
vowed, picking up the brush from the trunk and running
it through her hair. She walked over to the mirror
and stood before it. Staring at her reflection, she
whispered, "You survived being thrown back in time,
through fever, watching people die. You even survived the
goddamned Chisholm Trail ... you can
certainly survive Jordan Dillon
McCabe!"
  Determined, Elle pulled the brush through the
snarls in her hair. She was getting out. Out of this
room. Out of Texas. Out of this whole lousy
nightmare. And the sooner the better.

              Chapter 19

  "Why no, sir. There ain't no cause to be
alarmed. Just a little fuss between a man and his
woman, that's all."
  The tall, lanky man ran his thumb over the
ivory handle of his pistol. He stood in the
middle of the saloon and frowned. "That isn't the
way I heard it, Mr. Diggs. Traver
Diggs, from the Triple Cross, isn't it?"
  The trail boss nodded, and looked nervous.
"I don't know what you heard, but--"
  "What I heard, Mr. Diggs, is that
Jordan McCabe forcibly dragged a woman
upstairs and spent the night in her room. From
all sources, this was not a woman who would
ordinarily occupy quarters in this establishment.
If that is the case, then there is cause for my
concern. This woman's welfare and
reputation has been put in jeopardy."
  "You Reverend Slaughter?" Diggs asked.
  The taller man nodded.
  Traver's shoulders slumped in defeat.
Christ! John Slaughter. How in Sam
Hill was he supposed to explain this one?
Everybody knew the man's reputation. John
Slaughter had come into the territory years ago and
had staked out the Circle D ranch. Done real
good, too, from all accounts. He was as wealthy as
they come and as righteous as an old Baptist
woman. He took upon himself the role of
circuit preacher and kept the local citizenry
in line by following the Good Book, and when that
failed to work he didn't hesitate to use the
carved ivory pistols in his gun belt. Traver
himself knew of at least a dozen men who walked
lame after trying to resist the man's authority.
He was famous for his fire and brimstone sermons
and his lightning-fast right hand. The Cap'n's timing
couldn't have been worse. Decatur was
Slaughter's home base.
  Scratching his beard, Traver said in a
placating voice, "Look, Reverend, I
don't think you got anything to be concerned about here.
The Cap'n and Miss Elizabeth are married."
  The preacher's eyes narrowed with suspicion.
"Married?"
  Traver nodded quickly. "That's right. They were
married by proxy over in Georgia.
Atlanta."
  "When?"
  Traver thought for a moment and shrugged. "Can't
rightly say the exact date. You'd have to ask them.
Here comes Miss Elizabeth now."
  Both men turned at the sound of a trunk
hitting each wooden step as it was dragged
downstairs. They stared at the back end of the
woman who was muttering something under her breath.
  "Damn stupid cowboys," Elle swore.
"Damn stupid cowtown hotel. What I
wouldn't give for five minutes in a Hilton."
The trunk bounced down another step, jarring her
arms and shoulders. "And a strong bell captain
to carry this damn stupid trunk."
  Finally reaching the last step, Elle sat down
on top of the case. Her chest was heaving from the
exertion.
  "Mrs. McCabe?"
  She spun around and leaned her head
back to look into the face of the tall stranger.
He reminded her of pictures she had seen of
Ichabod Crane in a child's storybook.
Tall. Thin. Long, graying beard, and the most
piercing brown eyes she had ever seen.
  "I beg your pardon?" Elle asked. "Were
you speaking to me?"
  "Mrs. McCabe?"
  Elle laughed. "You've got to be kidding."
  The man frowned. "I'm very serious. Are you,
or are you not, married to Jordan McCabe?"
  Elle's mouth hung open. "Married to him?
Ha! I can't stand the sight of him, why the hell
would I want to be married to him?"
  The stranger turned to Traver. "I thought you
said they were married."
  Traver came closer and looked at Elle.
"They were married by proxy. That's what the Cap'n
told me. Miss Elizabeth?"
  Elle shook her head. "Sorry, Traver.
You and Kyle picked up the wrong woman in
Kansas. Sweet little Cynthia turned back
before Wichita." She grinned evilly. "I
guess the mighty McCabe didn't want
to admit a mistake, so he let everyone continue
to think what they wanted."
  Traver looked shocked and Elle rose to pat
his arm. "It's okay. It's been one hell of
an adventure, but I'm through. I'm getting the
kids and getting out. Please say goodbye
to everyone for me--"
  "Just one moment, madam," the taller man
interrupted. "Am I to understand that you spent the
night with a man to whom you are not married?"
  Very slowly, Elle turned to face him. "Who
are you? And what business is it of yours where I
spent the night?"
  "My name is John Slaughter. Reverend
John Slaughter."
  Elle's jaw tightened at the man's
self-righteous tone. "Well, Reverend ... it
appears that you are the only one in this place that
might have voiced an objection. Everyone else
seemed to have enjoyed the spectacle."
  "You, Traver, go up and bring McCabe down
here. I'm going to get to the bottom of this right
now."
  Having no intention of ever seeing Jordan again,
Elle waved her hand. "Well, I'll be off
then, fellows. Hope everything works out."
  She grabbed hold of the leather handle on the
trunk and began pulling it toward the front door
of the saloon.
  "Hold on there," Slaughter called out to her
as Traver raced up the steps, two at a time.
  Elle straightened. Clearly annoyed, she
asked, "Are you the sheriff, or something? I'm not
lodging a complaint. I just want to leave."
  "I act on a higher authority than man's
law. You and McCabe have broken God's
commandment and flaunted it in the faces of the good people of
Decatur. I intend to rectify that."
  Elle could only stare at him. This was just what
she needed. A born-again do-gooder meddling in her
life. It took a full thirty seconds for
her to regain the use of her voice.
  "Look, Reverend, if you feel the need
to preach a sermon on the ten commandments then address
it to Jordan McCabe. I'm out of here."
  Again, she attempted to pull the trunk when his
hand reached out and grabbed hold of her arm.
  "You're not going anywhere, madam. Now sit
down until I get to the bottom of this."
  Elle continued to stare at him. Then she looked
at his fingers, long, bony, gnarled with age ...
and wrapped around her upper arm. Feeling
threatened, she pulled her arm free. "Don't you
ever, ever, put your hand on me again. All my
life I've listened to other people telling me what
to do--what was right, or wrong. I've always played
by the rules, but enough is enough. I'm going to do what
I want to do, and what I want is to leave."
It was only anger that held back the tears, as a
group of men gathered around her. The expression on
their faces was an irritating mixture of
curiosity and amusement. "And none of you can stop
me," she added defiantly.
  Just then the group separated as Jordan walked
through them. He glanced at Slaughter, as if he
weren't important and turned to her. "Where are you
going, Elizabeth?"
  Damn it? Why wasn't anything going right?
She and the children were supposed to be long gone before he
even realized they were missing. Now what? She
took a deep breath to collect herself. "I am
trying to leave this place. Not that I don't
appreciate the charming ambiance, or the gracious
hospitality that has been extended to me," and she
glared at the men around her, "but I do have to bid you
all farewell. It's been bizarre,
to say the least."
  "Sheet! Will you listen to them fancy words?" a
leering cowboy announced. "Sure is a feisty
little thing, ain't she?"
  Elle and Jordan turned to the man and said in
unison, "shut up!"
  Slaughter stepped forward. "Watch your mouth,
Jake." The admonished cowboy frowned and stared
at the wooden floor. Satisfied, Slaughter
continued. "Now, you know who I am, McCabe?"
  Jordan turned his attention to the tall rancher
and nodded once. "I've heard of you,
Slaughter. You've made quite a name for yourself
by meddling into other people's business."
  The reverend's eyes narrowed. "It isn't my
reputation that I am concerned about now. It's this
woman's. Your actions yesterday have compromised
her and sent the wrong message to the rest of the
community."
  "Look," Elle interrupted, "do you honestly
think I care what anyone in Decatur thinks?
I just want to forget I've ever heard of the
place. So why don't I just leave and everyone
can--"
  "I will ask you to keep quiet, madam, just one
more time. You may not be concerned about Decatur but
I have worked hard to eliminate vice from this town.
Too many have ridden up the Trail and passed through,
only to leave destruction behind them. I want the
message to spread that we won't tolerate
strangers turning Decatur into a den of
depravity and corruption."
  Elle rolled her eyes upward. "Give me
a break," she muttered, and crossed her arms
over her chest.
  Slaughter ignored her remark. Instead, he
turned his attention to Jordan. "Are you, or are
you not, married to this woman?"
  Jordan stared at the man. The muscle in his
jaw was bulging as he clenched his back teeth.
Everyone waited for his answer, including Elle.
  "I am not."
  Traver, standing next to his boss, groaned
loudly.
  Slaughter seemed actually pleased
by Jordan's answer. A fanatical gleam
came into his eyes and he stood taller, as if
about to make an important decision. "Then you
are publicly admitting that you committed the sin of
fornication with this woman last night."
  "Oh, Jesus ..." Elle swore.
"Jordan, don't answer that. He has no right
to pry into anyone's life."
  Slaughter spun around to her. "Silence! How
dare you take the Lord's name in vain? Have you no
shame, woman?"
  Elle scowled right back at him. "Don't
scream at someone to be silent and then ask them
questions, because you sound obtuse. And, besides, the
answers are none of your business." She looked
at Jordan. "We were two consenting adults.
He can't treat us like misbehaving children."
  Before Jordan could respond, Slaughter
spoke up. "Consenting? You allowed this
behavior?"
  Elle refused to answer. She merely glared
at the man.
  Taking her silence as admission, the reverend
pulled a worn black book from the inside
pocket of his coat. "Then you shall be treated like
misbehaving children and taught a lesson. One that will
stay with you the rest of your lives." He lifted his
head and spoke to the men that surrounded them.
"Gentlemen, prepare for a wedding."
  After a moment of stunned silence, the crowd of
men started cheering and whooping and hollering. After a
confused moment, Elle realized that it was as if a
festival had been announced and the entire town was
invited to participate. These were grown men talking
in excited voices about where the wedding should be
held, whose wife would bring the ham and potato
salad. And didn't Mary Alice make the
best corn relish in the territory? What about
bread pudding, or should they try to get Miss
Louisa to whip up a cake? Did they have time?
  Elle would have laughed at the preposterous idea
of matrimony, except that she was fascinated by the
sight of cowboys preparing a wedding. Dear
God, they must live a dull life and any
excuse for a party was welcomed.
  "Excuse me ... Excuse me!"
Jordan shouted above the noise. Everyone stopped
talking and all attention turned to the
prospective groom. Jordan stood tall and
fairly composed, considering the turn of events.
"There will not be a wedding," he pronounced. "I will
not marry."
  Suddenly, and without any other reason than
pride, Elle lifted her chin in anger. "And
why not?" she demanded before another could ask
the question. Who the hell did he think he was
to humiliate her like this? It was one thing to be
rejected in the privacy of the room upstairs,
to be able to mask the pain in anger. Now, here, in
front of all these men, was unbearable.
  "Yes, why not?" Slaughter wanted to know.
  Ignoring the preacher, Jordan looked
directly at her.
  "I'm already married. To Cynthia Warden."
  "By proxy," Traver filled in. "See,
I told you, Reverend, he was married.
To somebody ..." he added lamely, while casting
Elle an apologetic look.
  She was staring at Jordan. How could he
consider himself married to that woman? He'd never
even met her. Last night really was nothing more
than a roll in the hay to him ... or on a
lumpy mattress, to be more accurate. How could
she have been such a fool to think otherwise? In his
mind, he was married. So what did that say about
her? About his opinion of her? Maybe Slaughter
was right. They were breaking commandments right and left. And
this was the big one. The big A.
  "He may have been married by proxy, Mr.
Diggs, but it was to the wrong person." The
preacherstgunslinger turned to Jordan. "Have you had
physical contact with this woman? This Cynthia
Warden?"
  Jordan tore his gaze away from Elle and
shook his head. "No. She was coming out west but
turned back before Kansas."
  Slaughter looked relieved. "Then there's no
problem. I'll dissolve the marriage. It
wasn't a marriage to begin with, and it was never
consummated."
  For the first time Jordan appeared nervous. "You
can't do that. You don't have the authority."
  Elle was getting more furious with every word that came
out of his mouth. How dare he sound so panicked?
What was she? A leper? Truly angry,
Elle pointed her finger at him. "I'll have you
know, Jordan McCabe, that plenty of men would
be honored at the opportunity of marrying me."
  "That's right," a middle-aged cowboy standing to her
left agreed. Elle smiled into his heavily
bearded face and didn't even cringe when he
grinned back at her and showed several missing
teeth. "If you don't want her, I'll take
her."
  "Me, too," another piped up.
  "And me."
  "Hey, Reverend, can you dissolve my marriage
too? Betsy's gettin' mighty tiresome
lately. I'm thinkin' I'd like a young, feisty
one."
  Slaughter held up his hands for silence. He
ignored the remarks of the men and addressed
Jordan's statements. "I do have the authority,
Mr. McCabe. Last month Governor
Richard Coke appointed me Wise County
circuit judge, and I hereby do declare the
marriage of Jordan McCabe and Cynthia
Warden null and void." He slammed the black
book in his hands for emphasis, and the audience
surrounding them cheered.
  Elle was smiling. "No kidding?" she said in
awe. Got to give Slaughter credit, she
thought. Once he gets a notion into his head,
he acts on it. Maybe it wasn't such a bad
idea now that she thought about it. She could keep the
kids and take them to Jordan's home. Hell,
she didn't have any money, or any place to go.
She'd been running away from him because he had
humiliated her. Now the tables were miraculously
turned and Elle had to admit it felt good.
Justice ... she liked the sound of that word.
  "Just a minute," Jordan interrupted
everyone's good mood. "You still can't force two people
to marry. I am not--"
  His words were cut short by the instantaneous
appearance of a pistol aimed at his temple. The
handles were of etched ivory. "You have done this
woman wrong, McCabe, and you now have to pay for
your weakness."
  "You play, you pay," a lone voice
muttered.
  "That's right," another agreed.
  Elle could have done without the gun, but she had
to admit she liked the way the whole thing was turning
out. Was it only less than an hour ago that she
had said someday someone was going to teach him a
lesson? And she had wished she'd be there to see
it? She shook her head in amazement. Maybe
God was listening to her after all.
  Revenge, she realized, could be exceedingly
sweet.
  Smiling to the surrounding men, she batted her
eyelashes in her best Scarlett O'Hara
imitation. "Gentlemen, could one of you strong men
carry my trunk back upstairs? I
have to prepare myself for my wedding."
  As six cowboys fought for the privilege,
Jordan called out to her. "Elizabeth! Have you
gone mad?"
  She turned and gazed at him with a serene
expression masking the near hysteria bubbling up
inside of her. He was handsome, sexually
satisfying, wealthy and he had a home. It was the
last accomplishment that made up her mind.
  "Why no, Jordan, I haven't gone
mad," she said in an almost victorious voice.
"To quote a cliche: I don't get mad. I
get even."
  He stared at her and she would always remember the
sight of him, dressed in the black outfit, his
hair still damp, a slight stubble on his cheeks,
a stunned expression on his face. She almost
smiled again. Instead, she turned to a young cowboy
who was standing on the step next to her. "Would you
please go over to Cummings Mercantile and bring
back the two children who are there? I'm going to need
attendants."
  She watched the man run out of the saloon and it
was then the idea came to her. "Oh, Reverend,"
she called out. Since you're also a judge, do you
think after we're married you could legalize an
adoption, actually two adoptions?"
  Slaughter kept his pistol aimed at
Jordan. Shrugging, the man said, "Why not?
Might as well take care of everything at
once."
  Elle grinned broadly. "My thoughts
exactly."
  Before she turned to go back to her room, she
stole a glance at Jordan.
  He was furious.

              Chapter 20

  The town was alive with activity.
  Women dusted off their party dresses and heated
curling irons to bring festive ringlets to their
hair. Quickly combining their efforts, they put together
a haphazard meal that lay covered, ready
to consume, on a long table. Men submerged in
wooden tubs for the first time all week and brought out
their Sunday best. They applied pomade
to slick back their hair and doused themselves with
vanilla extract in case a member of the
opposite sex consented to dancing after the
ceremony. Everyone in Decatur was in the mood
for fun ... everyone but the man standing under the wide
oak tree in front of the saloon.
  He was not alone. Three others had been
assigned to watch the prospective groom,
three men who kept their guns pointed at the
tall, scowling rancher in case he tried
to bolt. They had given up attempting to converse
with the man who regarded them with disdain. Instead, they
talked among themselves, knowing Jordan McCabe
would overhear their words.
  "There's worse things than marriage," Buck
Nordstrom stated.
  Henry Atz snorted. "Yeah, like prison.
Spent a year and half over in
Montgomryville on the chain gang. Come
to think of it, Buck, I done both. Married and
prison. Ain't that much different, I suppose,
'cept the food's better in prison."
  Amos Grafton chuckled. "How many times you
been married, Buck?"
  "Three. First one was the only one that was worth
a sheep's rump. Never did divorce number
two before I hitched up with Mavis. Maybe I
should get Reverend Slaughter to null and void it,
like he did for McCabe here." Henry sniggered.
"Only how am I supposed to do that without
Mavis findin' out? Hell, that woman would have my
balls in a wringer." He scratched his crotch.
"And I'm mighty fond of 'em, boys. That I
am ..."
  Jordan didn't even look at the cackling
middle-aged men. His gaze was fixed on the swinging
doors of the saloon. Any minute she would come
walking through them. He could see the crowd of people
growing as they began to gather for the ceremony, yet
he refused to look at any of them. What was the
point? It wasn't as if anyone would lift a
finger to help him. Hell, they were having too much
fun. But it was all at his expense. Even his own
men were attending this fiasco. And that's exactly
what it was. A disaster.
  No matter that he told himself it was his own
fault for being foolish enough to trust a female.
He should have known better. Elizabeth
Mackenzie was not a woman to take lightly. In
the deep recesses of his mind, he could almost
admire her resilience. Almost. She certainly
knew how to strike back. When she had seen the
way, she'd grabbed hold and took it.
How perfectly it had all worked out for her. She
gains a husband, respectability and children all in
one fell swoop. Her future was secured.
  Or so she thought. He had no choice. Not right
now. He'd go through with this sham of a wedding, let her
think she had won this round. But the fight had only
begun. Besides, none of this could possibly be
legal. If he had to employ the best lawyers
this side of the Mississippi, he'd find a way
out. And then she'd learn the true meaning of
revenge. In the meantime, he wasn't about to make
it easier on her. A part of him was almost eager
for the wedding to be over, so he could leave this place
and teach her what happens when you play God with
another's life. And he fully intended it to be
a lesson she would never forget.
  Jordan's eyes narrowed as Kyle walked out
of the saloon. The cowhand looked like a choirboy with
his pressed shirt and his hair still wet from his bath.
Jordan fought traitorous feelings as Kyle
brought his harmonica up to his lips and started
playing some gay tune. How could Kyle
Reavis, whom he had treated like a younger
brother, take part in this-- Jordan's thoughts were
cut short as Cory held half of the door open
for his sister. Julie wore the striped dress from
Alexander and she carried a small bouquet of
wildflowers. She looked flushed and nervous with
all the attention she was receiving and she slowly
walked in his direction as the crowd parted to make
an aisle. So it was about to begin, Jordan thought
grimly. He barely noticed that Slaughter had
appeared beside him.
  He was staring straight ahead at the door
Cory held open. Any second now she would
emerge and he wanted--
  Jordan's mouth hung open as he watched her
leave the wooden building. For just a moment he
realized how lovely she looked. The same
flowers Julie carried were weaved into her upswept
hair. She wore a long green skirt that hugged
her hips and a blouse the color of morning cream
with heavy lace at her throat. As she came
closer he could see the gold heart and immediately his
own hardened. Especially when he noticed the man
escorting her up to him.
  Traver Diggs, his friend, looked guilty as
hell.
  Jordan could barely contain his anger. How had
she managed to wrangle Traver into this?
Traver, who had served with him during the war? He
would have sworn his trail boss's loyalty.
Hadn't he saved the man's life at
Gettysburg? Christ, what other humiliation was
this woman about to subject him to?
  He received only a small measure of
satisfaction in seeing how nervous she was.
Avoiding his eyes, she kept her gaze to the
ground in front of her. All around her people were
smiling and the women were murmuring their approval as
she passed. Every female in town must be feeling
vindicated by this wedding, Jordan thought cynically.
Although the admission did little to brighten his mood, he
decided right then and there that fighting the situation would
be futile. Besides, everyone here expected it.
What would throw Elizabeth off balance was if he
were to appear to accept his fate. And he dearly
wanted her off balance.
  Satisfied that at least he had a plan,
Jordan forced a smile to appear at his lips.
As she approached him, he nodded to Traver and
held out his arm to her.
  He almost laughed out loud at her shocked
expression. Her eyes were wide, her face so
pale that her freckles were more pronounced. And the
flowers in her hands shook. Oh, Elizabeth,
he thought, the fun is just beginning ...
  She tried to stop the shaking, but her body
seemed to have a mind of its own. It was all so
unreal, from the moment Julie and Cory entered her
room. She had looked at them and realized she was
about to take on the responsibility of
parenthood. But what other choice did she have?
When Slaughter had brought up the possibility of
marriage it had seemed the perfect solution for
all of them. All but Jordan. Okay, so she
was smarting from his rejection, but a tiny truthful part
of her admitted that she loved him. She had never
loved another man and the realization just wouldn't go
away. Maybe in time she would have gotten over
him, forgotten the joy she had found last night, but
today she had to acknowledge the love within her heart.
She might not even stay in this time, but while she was
here she would be with him and the children would be safe.
Feeling more and more like Scarlett O'Hara, Elle
told herself for the tenth time I won't think about it
now. Just get through the ceremony. Never mind that
there are three men pointing pistols at Jordan
to make sure he goes through with it. And don't
try and figure out that ridiculous
seductive smile on his face. Forget that your
mother isn't here to witness this marriage. Hell, you
never thought there would ever .be a marriage in your
future. So get on with it ...
  Linking her arm through Jordan's, Elle tried
to concentrate on the preacher's words.
  "Do you, Elizabeth Ann Mackenzie,
take this man to be your lawfully wedded
husband--"
  "I do," Elle quickly answered.
  "I'm not finished yet," Slaughter countered,
scowling at her impatience. "Do you take this man
to be your lawfully wedded husband in sickness and
health, through riches and poor times, until death do
you part?"
  She nodded. "I do." There. It was over.
  "And do you promise to love, honor and obey
him in all things?"
  Wait a minute. Where did this come from? Elle
tilted her head to the side. Jordan still wore the
stupid smile. "I think I might have a little
problem with the obey part. Couldn't we just eliminate
that from the vow? I'm sure I could love and honor
him without--"
  "Madam, I am not amused," the Reverend
Slaughter interrupted. "The correct and only
acceptable answer is, I do!"
  Elle swallowed. It wasn't like this was a forever
binding vow. Even God would understand that she couldn't
promise forever if she didn't know where she would
spend it. She filled the tense silence with a
strong, "Okay, I do."
  The preacher nodded with satisfaction and turned
to the man next to her. "And do you, Jordan
Dillon McCabe, take this woman to be your
lawfully wedded wife, to love her in sickness and
in health, through riches and poor times, until death
do you part?"
  There was no hesitation. "I do."
  A happy murmuring spread through the crowd
until Slaughter silenced them with a threatening
glare. "And do you promise to love, honor and
cherish her--"
  "Now hold on a minute," Elle ordered.
"What happened to the obey bit? How come I have
to promise and he doesn't?"
  Jordan looked pleased. "She's a
suffragette," he said as if that explained
everything.
  "Oh, Lordy!" Henry Atz called
out. "I wouldn't tangle with one of them she-men.
How's a man supposed to marry a woman that
wants to be a man? Somebody tell me that.
Can't be done!"
  His wife, who outweighed him by fifty pounds,
elbowed him in the stomach. "Shut up, Henry.
Let them get on with it."
  Reverend Slaughter ignored the outburst and
looked at Elle. His long fingers clutched the
book in his hand. "That's the way it's written here
in the Bible. Are you questioning God's words?"
  Elle lifted her chin. "God didn't
write that. Men did. In my time couples
write their own vows and the word obey has been
completely eliminated."
  Jordan turned to her. With a far too
superior look on his face, he said, "Really,
Elizabeth, I don't think this is a good time
to invoke your fantasy about the future. Everyone
here wants to get on to the food and the partying that will
follow this momentous occasion. Do you want to keep
them waiting with stories that will most certainly have them
questioning your sanity?"
  She looked around her. Everyone was staring at
her, even Julie. She hated to admit that
Jordan was right. If she announced who she
was, where she came from, this thing would never end. And
now she knew that she just wanted it over.
  "Go ahead," she said with resignation. What good
would it do? No one would believe her.
  Collecting himself, Slaughter shot her an
impatient look before turning his attention back
to Jordan. "As I was saying, Do you promise
to love, honor and cherish her?" His expression
clearly stated that the task wasn't going to be an
easy one.
  Feeling the crowd's new sympathy toward him,
Jordan said in a martyred voice, "I do."
  Now that the vows were finally done, Slaughter
quickly added, "By the power vested in me by the Lord and the
state of Texas, I do hereby pronounce you

husband and wife."
  Elle barely had time to digest the announcement
when Jordan grabbed hold of her shoulders and
turned her to him. Without warning, he lowered his
lips to hers and kissed her soundly, thrusting his
tongue into her mouth and holding her when she struggled
to break free. She was thoroughly shaken when he
released her just as abruptly and faced the crowd
with a triumphant expression.
  Angry, Elle had to stop herself from punching that
self-satisfied smirk off his face. Instead,
she forced herself to collect her thoughts. "Excuse
me, Reverend," she said in a determined voice.
"What about arranging the adoptions now?"
  Slaughter looked down to the children who stood before
him. "Oh, yes." He cleared his throat and said
in a loud, official voice, "I also hereby
declare ..." and he opened his Bible to look at the
paper he'd inserted inside, "... Cory and
Julie Woodson to be legally adopted by this
couple. From this day forward they shall carry the name of
McCabe and be known as the son and daughter of
Elizabeth and Jordan, and shall be entitled to an
equal share in any inheritance that may be
acquired by any natural children that may result from
this union."
  Elle and Julie hugged with happiness and
looked down to Cory. The young boy was staring up
at Jordan, waiting ...
  He could feel the child's eyes upon him and
reluctantly lowered his gaze to meet Cory's.
Something broke inside of Jordan as he read the
boy's expression. There was expectation, a little
confusion, and something else, something that looked a
hell of a lot like love ... like the kind of love
he'd felt once, a very long time ago, for his own
father.
  Reaching down, he gathered the child up into his arms
and hugged him. If nothing else, he would admit
his happiness about this. Jordan inhaled the clean
scent of soap that clung to the child's skin. "What
do you think about that, Cory? You're going to come
home with me."
  Cory smiled and tilted his head to look at
Elizabeth and Julie. "And Julie, too,"
Jordan added. "Peachtree Point will be your
new home."
  Elle's mind was screaming, and me, too!
It'll be my new home, too! But Jordan
didn't say it. He didn't even look at
her. Beginning to feel left out, Elle was startled
when a heavyset woman came up to her and pumped
her hand up and down. "Congratulations, Mrs.
McCabe. Ain't you the lucky one? A husband
and a ready-made family in one day!"
  Mrs. McCabe? Those words hit her in the
face like a rush of cold water. She really was
married to him. Mrs. McCabe ... but was she
lucky? It could be the prelude to disaster.
Judging by the expression on his face when he'd
heard those words, it didn't appear promising.
  "C'mon, now," Buck Nordstrom urged,
pushing her and Jordan together. "You two got
to lead off the dancing."
  Julie grabbed Cory from Jordan as Buck
led them toward a flat, grassy clearing. Eager
to get on with it, three men stood off to the side,
their fiddles ready at their chins. Elle saw no
way out. The very last thing she wanted to do was dance with
Jordan. It had been bad enough to stand next to him,
but now ... dear God, to have his arms around her
might just prove her undoing.
  The fiddlers began tuning their instruments as
Buck settled them in the center of the dance area.
"First dance is for the bride and groom, then
everybody joins in," he said, as if giving
instructions to children. He nodded to the musicians and
stepped back to the waiting crowd.
  Staring at the small white buttons on
Jordan's shirt, Elle was startled to hear the
first loud chords begin.
  "They're waiting," Jordan announced
grimly, sliding an arm around her waist and taking
her right hand in his.
  She looked up into his eyes. There was no
warmth reflected in the cold light blue, only
satisfaction. Or maybe, triumph. Elle
had little time to figure it out as Jordan swung
her in a wide arc in time to the music. She
clung to him and was hard put to keep up. The song
was fast, perhaps a polka, and she tried to remember
the near skipping steps. Dozens of receptions
flashed through her mind. It didn't matter whether
they were held at the Four Seasons Hotel or
a local fire hall. Every wedding had a polka
and she had been cornered by more uncles, cousins or
friends into dancing the old standard. It was a benchmark,
a gauge of how well the party was proceeding.
Usually it wasn't the first piece, though. In her
mind, a polka wasn't something you tackled before a
few drinks. After that, you didn't care what you
looked like skipping and dipping to the maddeningly
happy tune. Maybe that's what she needed--a
few drinks. Immediately her brain rebelled.
Isn't that how this whole thing started? If only
she didn't drink that damned bourbon last
night. Concentrating, Elle finally fell
into step. It all seemed unreal. She was married
and dancing a polka with her husband, just like
all the other brides she had ever seen. Filled
with a small sense of triumph, Elle realized
that there was something reassuring in knowing her own wedding
was no exception.
  "You look pleased with yourself," Jordan
observed, turning her even faster.
  Elle was beginning to feel dizzy as the people
surrounding them began to blur. Only moments before
she had observed men and women clapping and tapping
their feet. Even the Reverend Slaughter seemed
festive. Now bodies and smiling faces became
smudges of color and sound. "Slow down," she
pleaded, forcing herself to study his belt buckle.
She was going to be sick if he didn't stop.
  "Oh, but this is just the start, Elizabeth. This
is your wedding day, something you've obviously
wanted a great deal. I fully intend that you
enjoy every moment of it."
  She immediately looked up at him. There was more
than a hint of sarcasm in his words and his smile was
almost frightening.
  "And I do want you to remember it,
Elizabeth. All of it."
  Despite the heat of the Texas afternoon, a chill
ran up her back. Her fingers dug into his
shoulder as he spun her around again and again. What was
he planning? Her mind filled with
possibilities, all of them unpleasant.
  It was plain, Jordan McCabe wanted more
than retribution.
  He wanted revenge.

  "A toast to the bride and groom!"
  Oh God, Elle thought, not another, as a
loud cheer went up. There couldn't be a man left
in Decatur that hadn't showered them with a flowery little
speech. Even Traver and Kyle and the men from the
Triple Cross had added their good wishes. The
trouble was she feared she might throw up if another
claimed her for a dance or acted insulted if she
didn't drink to their toast. If she never saw
another glass of beer, it wouldn't be soon enough.
Of course, Jordan made sure her glass was
always full, and then insisted that she dance with the person
who saluted them.
  Amos Grafton cleared his throat and said a
little drunkenly, "Here's to the McCabes, and to the
best damned weddin' Decatur ever put on."
  Everyone cheered. It was early evening and the hours
of eating and drinking and dancing were taking
effect.
  Amos wiped his nose on the sleeve of his
checkered shirt. "I just want to add that some of us
here felt a little bad about not helpin' out Miz
McCabe yesterday when she came through the
saloon, but we're sure glad it all turned
out so well. You might say we feel
responsible for this union. And I just want to say
we all wish you a long life and happiness."
  The crowd around Elle broke out in fresh
applause and shouts of agreement. Buck
Nordstrom finished off his beer and slammed the
glass mug onto a table. Wiping his large hands
on the front of his shirt, he walked up to her.
  "Play me a fast one, boys," he called
out to the fiddlers and Elle groaned as his huge
palm grasped her wrist.
  "Thanks, Buck, but I don't think I can
dance another--"
  "Sure you can," Jordan broke in. "This
is your wedding, Elizabeth," he said for the
twentieth time that afternoon, as if she needed the
reminder. "I'll tell you what--after this dance we
can call it a night and go up to your room if
you're tired." His smile hinted at a deeper
meaning to his words. And quite a few others caught the
same meaning as hoots and howls followed his
statement.
  Elle actually gulped down the panic that was
bubbling up in her throat. Go up to your
room? The wedding night. She hadn't thought that
far ahead. Pulling Buck to the center of the dance
area, she heard Jordan's knowing laughter.
  The sound of it grated on her nerves, yet she
was forced to concentrate on other things, like keeping her
balance as Buck dragged her in a wide circle
while trying to find the beat. Buck Nordstrom
might be a fine blacksmith, but he was no
dancer.
  And it was another polka. She winced as
Buck's massive foot stepped on hers.
"Sorry, Miz McCabe. These feet just got
a mind of their own when they hear music like this."
Elle smiled weakly and was immediately reminded of
Steve Martin's skit on happy feet.
Focusing her attention on Buck's happy
feet, Elle made sure to keep out of their
way.
  "Me next," she heard Henry Atz shout as
they skipped past. From the corner of her
eye she saw the man scratch his crotch in
nervous anticipation.
  Near exhaustion, Elle swore no other
bride ever hated her wedding as much.

              Chapter 21

  She sat on the edge of the chair and pulled the
hightop shoe off her foot. Moaning at the
pain, Elle's eyes actually started to water as
she massaged her aching feet.
  Jordan paused while unbuttoning his shirt
and stared at her. She felt his gaze and
involuntarily looked up. "My ah ... my
feet," she said stupidly. "I didn't know people
could keep dancing like that."
  He jerked his shirt out from the waistband of his
pants. "That's probably the first party they've
had in a year, he muttered, pulling the shirt off
him.
  Elle stared at his chest, the bare muscles, the
silky black hair that trailed below his belt.
She gulped and turned her attention to her other
shoe. Oh, God. What was she going to do? She
really hadn't thought that far ahead to this ... a wedding
night. After last night, it was almost absurd that
she be this nervous, this apprehensive, with
Jordan. But last night, they had been two
human beings that needed each other and connected as
man and woman. Tonight they were husband and wife.
Correction. Reluctant husband and anxious
wife. She didn't know what he was planning.
Maybe they would just go to sleep, and not deal with it.
No. He was angry. Maybe she should try
to talk to him, to explain why she went along with
Slaughter's crazy idea. Okay. That sounded
appropriate. They could talk.
  "Jordan, I know you're upset, and you have every
right to be," she quickly added, "but I want to let
you know why I did it."
  Unbuckling his pants, he spun around to her and
she dropped her shoe to the floor.
  "Why you did what, Elizabeth? Why you
came into my life? Why you allowed me to think you
were another woman? If I hadn't gotten that
telegram you still might be passing yourself off as
Cynthia." He sat on the edge of the bed and
pulled his pants off. As if they had undressed
in front of each other for years, he tossed the
trousers onto the back of her chair.
"You are a calculating and shrewd woman, and I
underestimated you. You saw your opportunity and a
way to get what you've been wanting all along
... a free ride."
  Her chin lifted, as if she'd been slapped.
"I beg your pardon," she said slowly,
deeply. "You actually think that's why I went
along with Slaughter and this marriage?"
  He stared right back at her. "I do."
  Her entire body tensed with outrage and she had
to dig her fingernails into her palm to keep from
striking him. "I did this for the children," she said, even
though a small part of her knew that wasn't the
whole truth. "And I have always been able to take
care of myself. Always. Why, when I--"
  "Look," he interrupted, as he pulled down
the covers and lay back in the bed, "I'm in no
mood to hear your stories tonight. You're a crazy
woman, Elizabeth. I'm married to a crazy
woman," he muttered as he settled himself against
the pillows. "An irrational woman with
preposterous tales about coming from the future." He
shook his head, as if not believing his bad luck.
  She tried standing up, but her feet hurt too
much and so she merely leaned forward in her chair.
"Just because you don't believe it doesn't mean it
isn't true. Why would I make up something like
that? Don't you think I know what it makes me
sound like?"
  He only shrugged.
  "I don't have any proof," she said, hearing the
desperation coming into her voice. "I wish to God
I had my purse, or something that would make you
believe me, but I don't have anything tangible.
All I can say is that I am telling the
truth."
  He continued to stare at her; his expression was
unreadable. Finally he said, "You expect me
to believe that you're from the future? You honestly
expect that?"
  She quickly nodded. "From the year nineteen
ninety-one. I know it must sound absurd, but one
minute I was in a dentist's chair getting my
tooth pulled and in the next his waiting room
turned into Wichita's train depot. And that's
when Traver and Kyle came up to me and assumed
I was Cynthia."
  He was shaking his head, so she hurried
to continue. "You see, I'd been given this drug
for the pain and it had made me feel
drunk, more than drunk, and I thought they were all
part of this hallucination I was having. Because even I
didn't believe that something like this could happen."
  "And that's why you went with them?" he asked
doubtfully.
  "Yes. It wasn't until the Novocaine,
the painkiller, started to wear off that I realized
something bizarre had happened. But by that time I was
too frightened and in too much pain to deal with it. Rather
than tell the truth, it had seemed safer to let
everyone think I was this woman until I found out
what was going on. I was wrong, Jordan," she
said earnestly, wanting him to believe her. "I
should have put a stop to it outside of Wichita, but
everything seemed to snowball out of control. It all
got too complicated after I got sick. And then
there was Cory and Julie, and I didn't know
what to do anymore. I guess the truth is I
was just too scared to do anything." She waited for a
moment to see if he would make a comment.
  Needing to fill the silence, she said, "But that was
the only time I deceived you, Jordan."
  He didn't respond, just continued to stare at
her. After a full minute, he took a deep
breath and said, "Cory and Julie are spending the
night in my room down the hall. I've left
orders with Traver to wake them up by five o'clock.
I want to get an early start for Peachtree
Point, so unless you plan to spend the night in that
chair, you'd better get undressed."
  She had tried, honestly tried, to reach out
to him. Filled with sadness, she rose and picked
up the thin cotton nightgown that someone had placed
on top of the trunk. She turned away from him,
not out of false modesty, but because she couldn't bear
to think that this man she loved mistrusted her so much
that they couldn't even communicate true feelings.
She could feel his eyes on her back as she
slipped the gown over her head. How could she get
in bed with him? What if he touched her? And what
if he didn't?
  She slipped beneath the covers without looking
directly at him. From the corner of her eye,
she saw him reach over and turn down the wick on
the lamp until the room was cast in darkness. She
heard him settle himself against his pillow, letting
out his breath in a long, tired sigh, and she
waited.
  And waited ...
  Surely he could hear her heart
beating against her breast, she thought, and tried
to relax. However, no amount of concentration could
ease the nervous pounding, nor could it wipe away
the vivid memory of last night and what had
taken place in this very bed. How could only
twenty-four hours have passed since he had held
her and loved her with such tender passion that she had
cried at its beauty? Thinking about it only made
her want him now. What would happen if she
reached out? Would he slap her hand away in
revulsion, or would he pull her to him ... because
he must be thinking about last night too. Last
night had been honest. Last night had been--
  "Good night, Elizabeth."
  She felt him shift onto his side, away from
her.
  Turning her head, she saw the silhouette of
his body in the moonlight, the way his shoulder
sloped down to his waist. Tears burned her
eyes as she realized this was rejection, raw and
painful.
  What else did she really expect?

  Her name was Mandy and she didn't care if
her cousin Katie had only given her up because
she'd got a bigger and prettier one. Mandy was the
best baby doll in the world and she belonged
to Elle. Elle loved the doll's soft blond
ringlets that curled around her finger, her fat little
arms and legs with dimples on the knees. It
didn't matter that one glassy eye stayed open
when Mandy went to bed. She was just fine the way she
was, and Elle hugged the doll to her chest in a
possessive embrace. Inhaling the scent of
rubber and talc that was so familiar, Elle
squeezed the doll tighter. Mandy was her best friend
and Elle had made a tiny playroom in the
corner of her Mommy's closet. Private
time. That's what Mommy called it. It was the
only place to be alone, and Mommy said it was
all right because she didn't use all the room in the
walk-in closet. Elle looked up to the
clothes that hung on either side of her. She could
smell the sweet scent of her mother's dresses.
It came from the little blue bottle with the shiny
label, the one that Mommy had read to her. Evening
in Paris. It sounded like the name of one of the movies
her mother watched alone late at night.
  She tried not to smell the other scent, the scent
of cigarettes and stale whiskey that
clung to her father's clothes. It was the same odor
that was always around him. She wouldn't think about him at
all, she thought as she carefully laid Mandy into the
tiny bed she had created from an old dress box
and worn-out towels. It wasn't as pretty as
Katie's wooden bed where her dolls slept, but
it was warm and--
  "Please, John, not again. I can't take
much more."
  Without looking, Elle grabbed Mandy back
up to her chest and clutched the doll in fear. They
were going to fight again, and if her father found out she was
in the closet he would beat her too. Elle shut
her eyes and buried her face in Mandy's hair.
I won't listen, she told herself as she put her
hands over her ears, yet she couldn't help but
hear her father's angry, loud voice.
  "Where'd you hide it? I know you took it!
Now, where the hell is it?"
  Her mother sounded frightened and Elle started
to cry, even before the inevitability began.
"John, I do not have your bottle. I told you
before if you want to drink yourself to death, do it. I
don't care anymore."
  Elle knew she should have never come into the
bedroom at night. They always fought in the
bedroom. He was going to hit her. Elle knew
he would do it soon and she wanted to run away before
her mother screamed. But she was trapped in the
closet, trapped in her body--a body that was
too small to stop him.
  "C'mon, Margie, of course you care.
If I die what the hell will happen to you and that
bastard you stuck me with, huh?"
  "Stop it, she'll hear you!"
  "What do I care if she does? Maybe
it's time somebody told her the truth."
  "How many times do I have to tell you? She's
yours. Why can't you believe that?"
  "Because a man knows when a kid isn't his.
Why do you think I drink so much? It's you,
Margie. All this is your fault. You've
driven me to drink. Now where is it, and I swear
to God if you tell me you don't know again I'll
beat the truth out of you!"
  "John, please ... I didn't touch--"
  The crack of his fist against her mother's skin
made Elle recoil and wrap herself into a tight
ball. She heard her mother scream, begging him
to stop, but he wouldn't. Once she had
come running into the bedroom and thrown herself around his
legs to get him away from her mom. He'd just
flung her against the dresser and went right back at
it. Hitting and hitting ... Yelling bad things
... and there was nothing she could do, except pray it
would all go away.
  "I hate him," Elle cried into Mandy's
hair. "I wish he would die and leave us alone.
I hate him! I hate him!"
  She didn't know when the yelling stopped and the
whimpering began. It was always like that, a familiar
pattern. It meant he was gone. Wiping away
her tears, Elle leaned forward and peeked out from the
crack in the doorway. She couldn't see him
anymore, just her mother curled up on the bed like a
broken doll.
  Elle pushed the door open and slowly
crawled to her feet. Very slowly, she walked
toward the bed.
  "Mommy? Mommy ..."
  Her mother moaned as she tried to turn her
face, but it wasn't a face at all. It
looked like something bad on television that she
shouldn't watch. Her mother's nose was pushed to one
side and her face and mouth were covered with blood.
  When Elle saw it she dropped Mandy to the
floor and screamed ... and screamed ...

  "Elizabeth! Wake up!"
  Her heart was pounding. Her head was throbbing.
Disoriented, she bolted up in bed and stared into the
moonlit room. Tears were streaming down her
cheeks and she tried to catch her breath.
  "What's wrong? You were screaming.
Elizabeth, are you all right?"
  She turned her head. Jordan. She was in
bed with Jordan. "It was a dream," she cried in
relief and brought her hands up to her face.
Overwhelmed with grief, her shoulders started shaking
from the racking sobs that tore at her body.
"Oh, God ... Oh, God ..."
  "Elizabeth. It was a dream. That's all."
  She lifted her face and moaned, "But it
wasn't a dream! It happened--how could I have
forgotten?"
  "What are you talking about?" He sat up
next to her. "Now, calm down. You just said it was
a dream."
  She didn't care that he hated her for deceiving
him. None of that mattered right now. She
needed to say it aloud. To tell someone. "Don't
you see? I blocked it out. I forgot. How could
I forget?"
  "Forget what? What are you talking about?"
  She wiped her face on the back of her hand and
looked at him. Even in the moonlight she could
see the mixture of confusion and concern in his
expression. She took a deep breath and said it.
"My father. He--he used to hit my mother. Beat
her. And I saw it," she cried, like the little child that
hid in the closet. "I can't believe I wiped
that out of my memory. She was--was beaten so
badly that her nose was broken. Her lip was
slit and ... my God, why did she stay with
him? Why didn't she leave? Was it because of me?"
She was shaking with anger and grief.
  "You don't have to say any more," he offered.
  "No. Don't you see? I have to. For
twenty years I buried that horror. Now it's
here in my mind and I want to remember everything.
He was gone. I didn't know what to do to help
her. I didn't even know how to use the
telephone--"
  "The telephone?" he interrupted.
  She impatiently shook her head. "I
didn't know how to reach anyone for help, so I
ran outside and went to the Freemans' house.
Mrs. Freeman came back with me and called
the police."
  The tears stung her eyes and her throat almost
closed with emotion. "They came and took her to the
hospital. I think I stayed with Mrs.
Freeman. I don't know why I didn't go
to my grandparents. Maybe we lived too far
away. I can't remember. But I do remember
hearing the Freemans talking about the police
finding my father in a bar and threatening him with arrest.
Mrs. Freeman was angry about that. She called
him a drunken bastard ..."
  That word stopped her cold and a warning chill ran
up her back. Her eyes widened in shock as she
recalled her father's accusation. Of course you
care, Margie. If I die what the hell will
happen to you and that bastard you stuck me with, huh?"
  Bastard. He wasn't her father?
  "He said I wasn't his. My father ... he
called me a bastard," she said in a numb
voice. Even though she was in shock, part of her was
rejoicing at his denial. But then she heard her mother
insisting he was wrong. What was the truth?
  "Elizabeth, it was a dream. Okay, a
memory," he quickly added when she shook her
head. "But a childhood memory. You say you
had forgotten it for twenty years. How reliable can
it be? Don't agonize over something--"
  "Listen to me. It happened. I blocked it out
because it was too painful, but I remember it now.
Vividly ... I know now why I've always
hated him. And why he's always hated me. He
isn't my father. He can't be."
  They sat in silence, each with their own thoughts,
until Jordan finally said, "Were you beaten?
Did he hit you?" His voice was hard with anger.
  She closed her eyes. "Just once ... and
... and then I left home." Taking a deep
breath, she wiped out the painful memory. "But before
that, growing up, he never beat me, just her. I
think he knew she would kill him if he touched
me, that she couldn't fight for herself, but she would for
me."
  He breathed heavily, waiting for her to continue,
but she didn't. Eventually, he asked in a
gentle voice, "Are you okay now?"
  She nodded, unable to talk. Her mind was
filled with questions and haunting memories.
  "Then why don't we try and get some
sleep?" he offered, lying back down. "We
probably have to be up in a few hours."
  She didn't say anything, merely slid down
the bed. When her cheek was on the pillow, Elle
brought her fist to her mouth to stifle fresh tears.
Biting down on her knuckle, she realized why
this memory had been triggered.
  It was her wedding night. And now she was married,
facing a relationship that was starting out as poorly as
her parents'--although for a different reason.
  John Mackenzie had felt trapped, deceived
into marriage, and Margie Curran had paid the
price for the rest of her miserable life. Over the
years she had allowed her husband to destroy her
confidence, her ego, and her self-respect
until there was nothing left but a defeated,
subdued woman.
  Staring blindly at the moonlit window, Elle
wondered what her own price would be.

  Jordan watched the shudders rack her body.
From her breathing he could tell that she was no longer
awake. She was like a little girl that had been
punished and cried herself to sleep. He
thought of his own mother and sister, so protected, so
cherished by him and his father, and he couldn't imagine
what Elizabeth went through as a child. But reality
set in. During the War he had seen a great many
horrifying things, things that challenged the sheltered
way of life he'd known. In a genteel
society, children weren't sent out to fight grown men
and die for a cause that they weren't even old enough
to understand. Women weren't raped by conquering armies
... not in the world he'd grown up in. But that world
no longer existed. He shouldn't have been shocked
by Elizabeth's words, but the anger was there
nonetheless. A surge of protectiveness welled
up inside of him and he curled his arm around her
waist, bringing her closer to his chest.
  He told himself it wasn't the woman that he was
cradling who had deceived him. It was that little girl
whose innocence had been so cruelly shattered.
  Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and
tried to relax. Within seconds, his eyes opened
and he stared at the silhouette of her head. What
was that word she used? Telephone? Not
telegraph. ... telephone. How odd. And
she seemed impatient with him for questioning, as if he
were a child and it would take too long to explain.
  He must remember to ask her about it tomorrow.

              Chapter 22

  The three of them just sat in the wagon and stared.
None of them could believe their eyes. Peachtree
Point. It was, quite simply, magnificent.
  They had passed out of the grassy plains into a
rolling timberland, thick with forests of cypress and
pine where the air seemed cleaner and cooler.
Ahead of the cattle, Elle had stopped her
wagon as they left the woods behind them. In the
distance was the most beautiful place she had ever
seen. Reminiscent of the Greek Revival
mansions of the deep South, the house stood off
to one side of an immense clearing. It was
constructed of soft peach-colored brick with black
shutters and four stately pillars on the front
and on each side. The roof of gray slate
sloped down to meet the pillars and shelter the
second story's lacy balcony that wrapped
around the house. On either side were groves of young
peach trees, planted in straight rows. Off in
the distance barns stood next to a long
rectangular structure that was
whitewashed. And beyond the buildings were grassy
fields where a formidable herd of cattle lazily
grazed.
  "This is it?" Julie questioned in an awed
voice.
  Elle blinked and gulped down the moisture in
her mouth. "I guess," she said numbly. This
was Jordan's home? My God. And she had
thought him nothing more than a rustic cowboy, keeping
his cattle on the back forty. Try four
hundred acres; maybe even four thousand. It was
intimidating as hell. Suddenly, Elle knew
why Jordan had thought she was only after a free
ride. The man was wealthy, at least in land and
possessions.
  "Well, what'da think?"
  She and Julie turned to Kyle who had ridden
up beside their wagon. Julie started to giggle.
"We're going to live here?" she asked
incredulously.
  Kyle's smile was filled with pride. He
nodded. "Yup. In the big house." He turned
back to the impressive home. "That's Miss
Hester comin' out on the porch now. 'Spect
she'll tell you where."
  Elle squinted to see better. She could only
make out white hair and a long, wide, gray
dress. Hester? Where had she heard that name? Had
Jordan told her-- Just then her memory
kicked in. It was his mother-in-law. Charlotte's
mother. The breath left Elle's body in a quick,
deflating rush.
  She was sure they wouldn't be greeted with warmth.

  Home. Just thinking the word lightened Jordan's
heart. And seeing Peachtree Point brought a
smile to his face. It had been one hell of a
cattle drive, one hell of a trip. But now
he was back, and he swore it would be a long time
before he again left. He let his gaze slowly
roam over The Triple Cross. The house was
called Peachtree Point, but the ranch itself
carried the more Texan handle. He noticed
Hester on the porch, her hand shielding her eyes
as she looked in his direction. Even though the
woman was well into her sixth decade, he knew
her vision had picked up Elizabeth and the children.
  And he wasn't looking forward to the explanation.
He wasn't even sure how he could explain
returning with a wife and two children.
Spurring his horse on, he made up his mind
to get it over with as soon as possible.

  "Hester, this is Elizabeth. Elizabeth
... Hester Morgan, my," there was a slight
hesitation, "my mother-in-law."
  Elle smiled with what she hoped was friendliness.
"How do you do?" She held out her hand and cringed
to see the skin streaked with sweat and dirt. Dear
God, she should have cleaned up before this meeting.
  The older woman eyed her suspiciously, and
shot Jordan a confused look before extending her
own soft, white hand. A lady's hand, Elle
thought as she shook it. There were no calluses from
driving a wagon across three states, nor was
dirt embedded into the creases of her palms. The
differences between them were dramatic. This woman
stood on the brick veranda, with its lacy wicker
furniture, coiled and frilled by the finest
craftsmen. Her appearance was that of a guarding
matriarch protecting what was hers. Elle
guessed her to be in her sixties, yet her skin
was remarkably smooth, like someone who hadn't been
in the sun for most of her life. Her hair was
white-gray, without any of the yellow that can
detract. Her eyes were an intelligent blue
and they were now fixed on Jordan, waiting for an
explanation for the strangers who had showed up on her
doorstep.
  Jordan cleared his throat and took off his
hat. He seemed uneasy as he brushed dust
off its rim. Looking down at the older woman,
he forced a smile and said, "Elizabeth and I were
married in Decatur yesterday."
  "What?" Hester looked as if someone had
punched her in the chest. Her eyes were wide with
horror.
  Jordan, knowing she had heard and understood his
words, didn't repeat his statement. Instead, he
motioned for the children who stood behind Elle to come up the
step and join him. "And this is Julie and Cory.
Elizabeth and I adopted them. They'll be
living here with us."
  Hester Hunt Morgan clutched the white
lace collar of her dress and stared at the people in
front of her. Clearly in shock, she tried
to gather her senses about her. "Jordan, what are
you talking about?" she demanded. "What happened
to Cynthia? Who is this woman? And these children?
You've adopted two children? What have you
done?" Her last word sounded as if it had been
forced through her throat.
  "Hester, I know this is all a shock to you, and
I apologize. If there was any way to prepare
you, I would have. But I knew I would have arrived
before any word could reach you. I thought it best if I
explained everything myself." Jordan looked out to the
men who had already led the Herefords into the new
corral and were now bringing their gear into the
bunkhouse. "I think you should sit down. Why
don't we continue this conversation inside?"
  Thinking the woman looked like she needed a drink
to steady herself, Elle smiled sympathetically. It
was an awkward moment and she didn't know what
to say, so she took Cory's hand and waited.
  Hester stared at Elle's hand clasping
Cory's for a few moments before nodding and leading the
way into the house. Letting out her breath in
relief, Elle realized that for a second or
two she thought the woman was going to demand that they
leave. And maybe she couldn't blame her if she
did. Smiling at Julie with false
encouragement, she followed Hester through the
massive front doors.
  The moment the tall, polished doors were closed
behind them, Elle's first impression was of a dark and
sheltering enclosure. The foyer wasn't forbidding
or unpleasant, but comforting. Almost churchlike.
The hallway was designed to make one feel
shielded and protected from the harsh Texas sun,
to muffle the sounds of a working ranch and create the
illusion of a firm barrier separating the outside
world from this home. It took a moment or two for
Elle's eyes to adjust to the dimness of the light
filtering through the small stained glass windows that
framed the front door. This warm light was
supplemented by a hanging lantern that, at night,
would cast a rich glow on the satiny finish of the
dark wood wainscoting. It would pick up and
reflect the fertile greens, the oxblood red and
burgundy in the heavily patterned wallpaper.
  Elle watched as Jordan hung his hat on
a massive hall tree with its twisted and
spiraled branches that encircled a narrow
mirror. She noticed a huge grandfather clock
that silently announced the moment she walked into this
house. Four fifty-three. The sharp odor of
homemade furniture polish, of linseed oil
and vinegar, emanated from the wide center
stairway, with its gleaming dark wood
spindles and shiny balusters, its steps paved with
runners held in place by brass carpet rods.
Elle was so engrossed in her observations that she was
startled when Jordan said, "Let's go into the
drawing room, all right?"
  He held out his band to indicate the way and
Hester walked stiffly ahead of her and the children,
leading them into a room that could only be described
by seeing it.
  It was a fantasy of color, pattern and
design.
  The high walls were covered in a light-cream
damask and the woodwork at ceiling and floor
painted in tones of ivory, flecked with gold.
Gracing the space in between were large paintings that
appeared to Elle's untrained eye like works of the
Grand Masters of Europe. There was a huge
fireplace in the center of one wall with a mantel
of soft-pink marble. Sitting at opposite ends
were tall Japanese urns that perfectly matched
the light green, rose and pearl-gray hues in the
medallion and serpentine-back sofas, loveseats
and settees. A quick guess was that twenty people could
be seated with ease. She had never seen anything like
it outside of a movie set, and glanced at the
sumptuous drapes that graced the long windows.
They were works of art, like any woman's gown, with
an abundance of fabric, cords and fringe. No
wonder Scarlett O'Hara was able to fashion her
famous green velvet dress out of her mother's
precious portieres, complete with tassels,
braid and trim. It was all there.
  Hester nodded to a small loveseat,
upholstered in pale green and rose, and indicated
with her hand that Elle and the children should sit down. The
expression on the woman's face clearly showed
that she worried they might stain it. Conscious of the
way they looked, Elle took Cory's hat
off his head and handed it to him. She sat on the edge
of the seat, making room for a child on either side of
her. Elle waited, poised, on her best
behavior, as though she were a child herself.
  Jordan sat opposite his mother-in-law. It
didn't seem to concern him that his clothes weren't
clean as he leaned back and ran his fingers through his
hair. He appeared anxious, uncertain how
to begin. Finally he said, "Cynthia turned back
in Kansas. She changed her mind. I
suppose she saw a few sodhouses and
pictured herself living in one. She went
back to Atlanta. That's all there is to say about
it."
  Hester swallowed down several questions. Instead,
she glanced at Elle and the children. "And what about this?
How could you have married someone you didn't even know?
And adopt these children? You want children that badly, then
have your own."
  He knew it was difficult for her, bringing
another woman into the house, especially a
completely different woman than the one she was
expecting, but he also didn't care for the
proprietary tone in her voice. Nor her
rude questions. This was, after all, his home. And it
was his life. She wasn't his mother. He was never
sure that she even cared for him, or just put up with
his presence here because he had provided the proper
life she'd required for her daughter.
  "I've known Elizabeth for over a month.
She's my wife, Hester," he said. Not that he
actually felt that way, but he wanted to make a
point with his mother-in-law. Ex mother-in-law now that
he thought about it. "And Cory and Julie are to be
treated as my children. Now, if you'd show them to their
rooms, you and I can discuss this matter
privately at a later time. Right now, I think
we'd all like to settle in. We've had a long
trip."
  Wondering why Jordan didn't tell the
complete truth about their unorthodox union,
Elle watched as Hester hesitated, studying the
man opposite her. Then, as if coming to a mental
decision, she rose gracefully from her chair and
turned to Elle and the children.
  "If you'll come with me, I'll lead the way."
  Elle smiled, trying so hard to exude
friendliness. She stood, and the children followed. Before they
left the room, she turned back to the man who
called himself her husband.
  "Your home is beautiful, Jordan," she
said sincerely.
  He seemed preoccupied for a moment before saying,
"Thank you."
  She waited for him to continue, to say anything that
would indicate her place in this household. Yet
he added nothing more.
  Nodding shyly, Elle turned back to follow
Hester out into the foyer and up the grand staircase.
Holding each of the children's hands, she squeezed hard
to let them feel her support. Children were sometimes
smarter than adults in picking up
attitudes. And Hester Morgan's attitude
was pretty easy to read.
  They were not welcomed additions to this house.

  "I'll instruct Nina, our housekeeper,
to air out the rooms and replace the linens,"
Hester said primly as she led them into a lovely
bedroom decorated in yellow and white. "I had
no warning these rooms would be used. This will be for the
girl," she announced, her expression clearly
showing her annoyance. "The boy can take the
smaller room down the hall."
  Elle watched Julie's pleasure as the
girl stared at the bedroom. This one room was
bigger than her entire home in Kansas. The
feminine decor of white lace curtains and the
daisy quilt must have seemed almost regal to the child
who grew up in a sodhouse. Yet when Hester
announced that Cory would be put down the hall,
Julie spun around to Elle with a startled look
on her face. Cory clutched Elle's hand in
a death grip and she knew the two of them were
terrified of the woman.
  Trying to be diplomatic, Elle smiled and
said, "Do you think, Mrs. Morgan, that the children
could stay together for a little while until they get
settled?"
  Hester looked at Julie and Cory and then
back to the room. "There's only one bed," she
stated, as if Elle had lost her senses.
  "Yes, I know," Elle answered in an even
voice. Not wanting to discuss the situation in
front of the children, she added, "Perhaps Cory can
wait in here with Julie while you show me where
I'll be sleeping?"
  Hester didn't say anything, just nodded stiffly
and brushed past Elle. Winking at the children,
Elle followed. At the opposite end of the
hallway, she was shown into a large bedroom
decorated in cream and soft muted blues. A
lacy crocheted bedcover graced the high
canopied bed. Elle noted that the furniture was
not as elegant as downstairs, yet just as
tasteful. Chintz slipper chairs nuzzled up
against a small fireplace, carrying the same
floral pattern as on the drapes. There was a
marble-topped bureau, a nightstand, a washstand and a
huge armoire with oval mirrors on the doors.
  "This was my daughter's room," Hester
announced in a tight voice.
  "Perhaps I could use another then. I don't
mind." Truth was she didn't want to alienate
the woman any further.
  Shaking her head, Hester said, "This room
adjoins Jordan's. As his wife he would
expect you to occupy it."
  Elle looked at the connecting door. So he
and Charlotte didn't sleep together. Now that was
interesting ...
  "I believe your purpose in leaving the children was
so that we could discuss their sleeping arrangements.
I must say that I find your suggestion of them
staying together to be highly unsuitable and, quite
frankly, improper. A young boy should not be in the
same room as his sister, especially one of ...
what was her name? Julie? Julie's age."
  She came right to the point. The businesswoman
in Elle liked that. There wouldn't be any beating
around the bush with this woman. Hoping Hester would
respect that trait in another, Elle said, "I
can understand your reluctance, Mrs. Morgan,
especially since you didn't know anything about us
until our arrival. It might help if I
told you that until yesterday, Julie and Cory
were orphans. Jordan and I were with the children when they
saw their parents killed and we took them with us.
They've been together all their lives and to separate
them now, when they have to make another new
adjustment, might prove detrimental. Cory
hasn't spoken since his parents' death," she
added. "I just don't think putting him in a room
by himself right now would be a wise decision."
  Hester Morgan clenched her back teeth in
irritation. "I do not know your background, but I
will attempt to instruct you in propriety, since
it appears your mother failed to do so." She crossed
her arms over her ample chest, clearly ill at
ease. "During sleep the body exudes
emanations, "effluvia--if you will, which contaminate
the room and everything in it. These nightly vapors
are different for the male and female--thus the
reason for separate bedrooms. On the best
American and British medical advice, it is
highly recommended that males and females
sleep apart."
  "Why?" Elle interrupted, amused and
curious. What the hell was effluvia? It
sounded like an African lung disease.
  Hester appeared annoyed and sighed deeply before
continuing. "Honestly, you are not exactly
a young girl yourself. I shouldn't have to explain such
things to someone of your age. I can see that your
training in running a household is sadly
lacking."
  Elle was about to tell her that she'd graduated
Rutgers in the top ten percent of her class, but
she knew it wouldn't make any sense to the
woman, nor any difference. "I am curious,
though," Elle said honestly. "What is this
effluvia? I've never heard of it."
  "Perhaps you should ask your husband to explain," she
answered stiffly.
  Elle noted that she said the word husband as if it
were forced from her lips. Nodding, Elle said,
"I'll do that, then. And until I do, I would
appreciate if Cory and Julie remained
together."
  "That's unacceptable. I will not permit brother
and sister to share the same room."
  She was about to tell her that this particular brother
and sister had shared a single room for their entire
lives, a room where the whole family ate and
slept and washed, and God knows what other
night-time activities occurred and were witnessed,
but she knew Hester would be shocked. Instead, she
realized that this was a confrontation. This issue would
determine who the mistress of the house would be ...
  Elle decided to try reasoning once more.
"Look, Hester," and she used the name with more
friendliness than she felt, "I have no intention of
usurping your place at Peachtree Point.
It's obvious to me that you run this house far
better than I ever could." She didn't add that
in her own time she had trouble keeping her
five-room apartment orderly. "I don't want
to take your place, or your daughter's place.
I only want some peace, for myself and the children.
We've all been through enough, especially them.
Now, unless you can give me a better reason
than this mysterious vapor thing, then I'm going to have
to insist that they stay together. At least, for now."
  Hester stared at her as if she were no more than
an insect that had invaded her home. Seeing how
meticulous the woman was about cleanliness, Elle
felt like squirming to avoid the inevitable
squashing, but she stood her ground.
  Finally, Hester said in a tight, barely
controlled voice, "I find it highly distasteful
that I am forced to instruct you in matters of breeding
and gentility." She took a deep,
steadying breath and walked further into the room.
Wiping her fingers over a wooden bedpost to check
for dust, Hester said in a schoolmarmish voice,
"For many years it is accepted, and gentlemen have
been warned, of the emanations of the sleeping female,
emanations that are carried in the air. It is an
established belief that the "vital forces" of each,
male and female, might be unknowingly exchanged
as a result of too frequent nightly ...
intimacies." The last word was whispered, with
obvious distaste. "These ... these things might
cause the wife to show masculine appetites and the
husband to demonstrate effeminate ones. Thus
separate bedrooms, to safeguard each from the
other. You will have the key to this room to protect yourself
and your privacy, to provide you with the means of
avoiding undressing in one another's presence.
Because this, too, is believed to inflame
excessive emotion."
  She turned to look at Elle. "Now can you
understand why Julie and her brother cannot share the
same room?"
  Elle had to bite down on her bottom lip
to keep from laughing. Vital forces! This woman
actually thought males and females might suck the
very aura of their sleeping companions? It was
ludicrous, and hilarious ... yet she could tell
that Hester Morgan firmly held this belief.
"Cory and Julie are brother and sister, not
husband and wife. If it would make you feel any
better, maybe we could set up a cot for
Cory across the room? And it would only be for a
few days, just until they become more comfortable here."
  The two women stood, staring, measuring each
other, for what seemed to Elle like endless,
tortuous, minutes. Neither wanted to back down,
both knowing the resolution would determine an already
rocky relationship. Finally, Elle decided
to speak, to strike a deal. It was, after, all,
the one area she knew about.
  "For three days Cory sleeps on a cot in
Julie's room. During that time we'll get him
used to the separation. We'll put his things into his
room, let him play in there and become comfortable.
After that, it's your way. Separate bedrooms."
  Hester didn't say anything, merely continued
to stare--evaluating the situation and the young woman in
front of her.
  "Please, Hester," Elle appealed.
"Don't do it for me, because I'm asking
you. Do it for those two scared children down the hall."
  Blinking several times, Hester Morgan
turned toward the door. Before reaching it, she said,
"We dress for dinner. Paulo will bring your
things. We always sit down at seven.
Exactly."
  "We'll be on time," Elle responded.
  Grasping the brass door handle, Hester
added, "Three days. That's all."
  Even though the woman couldn't see her, Elle
smiled. "Thank you, Hester," she said in a low
voice filled with gratitude.
  The door simply closed quietly.

              Chapter 23

  "She scares me. She's like those women in
Caldwell, the church women that look at you like
everything you're doing is wrong." Julie
nervously checked the buttons on her one good
dress, the blue-and-white striped muslin.
  Combing Cory's hair, Elle smiled.
"Don't be scared. Either of you. Mrs. Morgan
just didn't expect us, that's all."
  "But what if we do something wrong? This is like
living in one of those fairy castles in the
storybooks. And she's the evil queen."
  Elle looked over to the girl. "Don't
frighten Cory. And that isn't true. Let's
give her a chance to get used to us before making
judgments. God, she even sounded like a mother!
Maybe this role was made for her. She was
certainly slipping into it easily. "And don't
worry about dinner. Just watch me and do everything I
do. Do you hear, Cory?"
  She looked down to the silent child in front of
her. His blond hair was parted and neatly slicked
back. He needed a haircut, she thought
maternally, and made a mental note to ask
Jordan about it. The collar of his white shirt was
buttoned to the neck and his black pants had been
neatly pressed. Nina, the housekeeper, had
fussed over the children and earned Elle's loyalty
by making sure that they would walk downstairs to dinner
clean and at least pass Hester's scrutiny.
  Elle had immediately liked the large woman with
her dark Mexican eyes and kind face. Nina
seemed delighted with the children and indulged them by bringing
up tiny sugar-covered cakes and iced lemonade
while she set up Cory's cot. She
had even fussed over Elle, helping to put
away Cynthia's things in the armoire, setting out
the silver-handled brush and mirror and clucking
over Elle's lack of wardrobe. When the
woman had left to go down and supervise dinner,
Elle was sure she and the children had made at least
one ally. And that knowledge was comforting.
  "Cory? Do you understand?" Elle repeated.
"All you have to do is follow what I do, okay?"
  The boy nodded solemnly.
  She led him over to Julie and the three of them
looked into the oval mirrors on the armoire.
They stared at their reflection, each filled with their
own thoughts. Finally, Elle said, "Okay, people,
I think we'll pass. Now let's eat!"
  Cory smiled and Julie deeply inhaled,
letting out her breath slowly. "I hope
Kyle's there," she whispered as they headed for the
door.
  Elle knew what the girl meant. A friendly
face would be welcomed. Leading her troop toward
the wide stairway, Elle wondered about
Jordan. She hadn't seen him since their
discussion in the drawing room. What was he thinking,
now that they were finally here? What did he plan to do
with her? Would he divorce her? Wait until the
children were settled before asking her to leave?
  She shook her head to drive out the thoughts.
Jordan McCabe was never an easy man
to read. But right now there was a dinner to get through.
Figuring out Jordan would just have to wait.

  "Don't touch anything," Elle whispered to the
children as she viewed the elaborate dining room. It
looked ready for a banquet. The table was a mass
of antique linen, Irish crystal, bone china and
silver. A tall centerpiece of gilded sterling
stood two feet high so not to block the view of
those dining. It was filled with summer flowers and lit
candles. Double-tiered ornate silver trays
held an array of delicious-looking fruit and
added to the assault on the senses of sight, taste
and smell. Tiny crystal and silver bowls were
filled with pink and white mints at one end of the
table and shelled walnuts on the other. There was
even a plate of sugar-coated jellies in the
shape of flowers, protected by a wire and
crocheted lace "safe," to keep away flies.
But what really startled Elle was not her
surroundings. It was the man rising from his
chair at the head of the table.
  Gone was the cowboy she had known on the trail.
The only trace, the only thing familiar, was his
neatly trimmed mustache. Instead of jeans and
cowboy boots, Jordan wore a finely
tailored black suit, almost modern in style.
Even from a distance, Elle could tell his shirt was
of snowy white cotton and crisply starched. He
wore a black string tie held at his throat
by a silver and turquoise clasp that she knew
would exactly match his eyes. She noticed that his
hair was trimmed and combed back off his forehead and
she had the most irrational urge to run her fingers
through it. Jordan McCabe was the picture of the
perfect gentleman.
  Melt my heart, Elle thought giddily,
as a warm rush of pleasure raced up her body.
The man was drop-dead gorgeous!
  Jordan smiled at them and held out the chairs
to his right.
  "Cory. Julie. Why don't you two sit
here?"
  Elle nodded to the children and watched as they
hesitantly walked up to Jordan. He seated
Julie and then pushed Cory's chair in for him,
patting the boy's back as he left them to walk
around the table to the other side.
  "Elizabeth?"
  He held out the chair on his left, next
to Hester. So, Elle thought happily, she was to have
the honored seat next to her husband. She took
it as a good sign. Smiling first at Jordan and
then Hester, Elle sat down. She looked in
front of her. The dishes were rimmed in bands of
cobalt blue and gold. The wine glasses and
water goblets were of finely cut crystal and she
could tell that the silver knives and forks would be
weighted and pure. Okay. She could handle this
... nothing to panic about.
  Reaching out, she daintily picked up the starched
napkin and placed it on her lap. She looked
pointedly at the children and smiled when she saw them
follow suit. It was going to be all right. She
would show Hester Morgan that these kids had
potential.
  Hester nodded primly to her as a form of
greeting and then picked up a porcelain bell and
rang it. Immediately the dining room door opened and
young Mexican women brought out silver platters
brimming with food--beef tenderloin
wrapped in delicate pastry, roasted chicken with
herb sauce, green vegetables decorated with
sprigs of mint. Elle was impressed, and knew
the children had never seen anything like it in their lives.
She saw Jordan serve himself and then, as if he
had done it for years, help Cory. Her heart
swelled with gratitude as she observed him
cutting Cory's meat while keeping up a
conversation with Hester about the ranch. He did it
casually, without making a point of it, and handed
Cory his fork with a smile.
  That simple act, done so effortlessly, endeared
him to Elle more than she thought possible. Tasting the
chicken, she saw Cory fidget, as if
uncomfortable, and grinned reassuringly. The boy
was trying so hard to please. She turned her
attention to Jordan and Hester, trying to listen
to their conversation.
  "Look what happened to the King-Kenedy ranch.
Now it's divided between the two of them. From what
I hear Mifflin Kenedy regrets the day that
happened," Hester said, cutting off a tiny
piece of beef. "It's Richard King that has
prospered."
  Jordan sipped the dark red wine. "King
made a fortune during the war trading in cotton.
He used steamboats to carry it to the British
ships at Brownsville. That's the money he
used to expand."

  "How large is his ranch?" Elle asked,
wanting to join the conversation.
  "Around three hundred thousand acres,"
Jordan said casually.
  Elle blinked. "Three hundred thousand?" It
sounded enormous.
  Jordan merely nodded and chewed his meat.
  "How big is the Triple Cross?" she
asked. In truth, she was dying to know.
  "Three hundred and twenty thousand," he
answered as if it weren't an outrageous
statement.
  "You're kidding?" Elle was shocked. She
couldn't even comprehend such a vast holding.
  He paused and looked at her. "No. I'm
not. The Goodnight-Adair JandA Ranch is
almost a million acres, so we'd be considered
pretty small in comparison. But we're not doing
too badly. We have almost seventy-five thousand
head of cattle, most of them grazing on our land.
Some on the government's open range, but
very few now that we drove almost a thousand
to market."
  Elle couldn't help grinning. She was
impressed. "And you own all this, Jordan?"
  "Two-thirds. I have an investor, a partner,
John Magonicle, from Scotland." He was
looking at her strangely, as though seeing something
in her he hadn't seen before.
  Elle turned to Hester and laughed. "And I
thought he was some Texan who kept a few head of
cattle out on the back forty ..." She shook
her head in amazement.
  "It's quite impressive, Jordan," she added
with a chuckle and looked around the dining room.
"All of it. Congratulations."
  Her laughter was contagious and Jordan
smiled. "Thank you."
  "So you really didn't know that much about Jordan
when you married him?" Hester asked, interrupting the
moment.
  Elle turned to her left. "I didn't know
about all this," she answered truthfully. She
glanced back at Jordan shyly before turning her
attention to her dinner. "I knew enough, though,"
she added in a quiet voice.
  "Where are you from, Elizabeth?" Hester asked.
"Jordan never said."
  It was an innocent question, certainly one someone
would ask under the circumstances, yet Elle quickly
looked up to Jordan and saw the slight narrowing
of his eyes. She knew he was afraid she would
tell Hester the same story she had told him.
About the future ...
  Elle sipped her wine and stared across the table
at Julie. Even the girl was patiently
waiting for the answer.
  "I'm from Bucks County, Pennsylvania,"
Elle began. "My parents are Margarie and
John Mackenzie."
  Hester took that information and asked, "And what
business occupies your father?"
  Such a quaint way of rephrasing the real question:
What does your family do, and are you good enough to be
sitting at this table?
  Elle calmly picked up her napkin and
wiped the corner of her mouth. "My father is
involved in the manufacturing of ale in
Philadelphia." It wasn't a complete
lie. John Mackenzie had held down a job
at Schmidt's Brewery for almost two
years--a record for him. Of course, he had
probably consumed an equal amount to what he'd
manufactured, but she didn't have to tell Hester
that.
  "How interesting," Hester said in a voice that
indicated the exact opposite. "Do you have a
large family?"
  "I'm an only child," Elle answered and a
vivid picture of her mother flashed across her
brain. How she would love this place, Elle
thought. She had always been so wrapped up in her
late-night movies and her magazines that told
of the glamorous lives of the stars. Living in a
rented two-bedroom apartment outside of
Philly, Margie Mackenzie had found an
escape in her fantasies. Yet Elle was
sure none of the layouts her mother pored over could
hold a candle to the real thing--Peachtree Point.
  "Are your parents alive?" Hester asked.
  She was about to automatically answer yes, when
she realized the opposite was true. In this time
they didn't even exist yet. "No. No,
they're not."
  "I'm sorry," Hester said quietly, and
busied herself with her meal.
  An awkward silence followed, and Elle
frantically searched her brain for a subject
to fill in the void. Nothing came, and everyone
continued the meal quietly. The only noise was of
silver forks against china, crystal goblets filled
with milk against young teeth--all infractions of
proper etiquette. Elle mentally made a
note that tomorrow she would have to have a private meal with the
children--a real hands-on lesson. She noticed that
Cory was still squirming nervously as he clutched
his fork in his fist. She'd teach him the proper way
to hold it, before Hester pointed it out. Julie was
older and had carefully studied the others at the
table and followed suit, but Cory was obviously
uncomfortable and everyone was beginning to notice his
restless movements.
  "What is wrong with the boy?" Hester finally
asked in an irritated voice. "Must he
fidget so?"
  Everyone looked at Cory and the child's face
reddened with embarrassment.
  Immediately, Elle's maternal defenses rose
to the surface. If Hester knew the children's true
background, she wouldn't be so critical. They were
performing. They weren't enjoying this meal.
Maybe Cory was uncomfortable because he was scared
of making a mistake. Maybe he had to use a
bathroom. Or, perhaps he was flat-out terrified
of the woman. Elle would bet on the latter.
  "Sit still, sweetheart," Elle said softly
and smiled with reassurance.
  Jordan asked, "Are you all right, Cory?"
  The child's eyes were brimming with tears and his hands
were under the table, as if adjusting his pants ... or
something. Elle saw Julie's eyes widen with
horror when she looked at her brother.
  A quick feeling of dread washed over Elle as
Hester called out, "What are you playing with under the
table? A child's hands should always be in sight. Now
please bring them up."
  His lower lip trembled, fighting the urge
to cry, as he slowly obeyed the woman.
  "No, Cory ..." Julie whispered in
fear. "Don't!"
  But it was too late. Confused, not knowing what
else to do, Cory lifted his hands and revealed
what was causing his trouble.
  Noah!
  Hester Morgan saw those two beady eyes
peeking out from that hairy, pointed face and shrieked
with horror.
  Startled by the woman's scream, Cory jumped
in fright and Noah escaped his clutch. The mouse
scurried across the table, causing Hester to bolt
up and knock her chair to the floor.
  Even Elle stood up, trying to head off the
thing before it jumped off the table and was lost behind the
furniture or draperies. What ensued next
could only be compared to a Keystone Cops serial.
Hester remained transfixed in terror, clutching
her face and making tiny screeching noises. The
rest of them made diving attempts to capture the
wily rodent who avoided outstretched hands
by scurrying over the table. The mouse dived in and out
of the vegetables with lightning speed. Julie made
a heroic attempt to snare it but only succeeded
in knocking the plate over and scattering peas across
the table. Next, Noah ran up toward
Jordan.
  "I've got him! I've got him!"
Jordan yelled, swooping down to trap the
mouse. Noah was quicker than any human,
including Jordan, whose elbow connected with his wine
glass, spilling the contents to the table. Everyone
watched the deep red stain spread across the
white linen.
  "My cloth ..." Hester whimpered as several
Mexican women rushed into the dining room.
  Desperate to avoid irreparable damage,
Elle reached across the table and picked up the lace
and wire tent that was sheltering the sugary confections.
"Jordan, get ready to move those flowers," she
ordered, spying Noah huddled at the base of the
centerpiece.
  She looked at Jordan and saw he understood
what she was planning to do.
  He leaned over the table, holding the center of the
gilded piece and glanced at her. "Are you
ready?" he asked, knowing timing was everything.
  Elle stood poised, the elegant "tent" in
hand. She took a deep, steadying breath.
"Now!"
  Jordan's arm went up; Elle's came
down. And Noah was trapped inside a dainty
lace prison.
  Everyone stood, for just a few seconds, staring
at the mouse, until Jordan said, "All right,
I'll handle this. Nina, bring me a box, an
old hatbox or something."
  "You are not keeping that thing in this house," Hester
muttered, her face an alarming color of red.
  "Yes, I know," Jordan answered shortly
and looked at Cory. "Noah can't stay here.
I should have told you that earlier. Don't be
upset," he said to the crying child. "This is my
fault for not remembering. He'll stay with Kyle
out in the bunkhouse and you can see him any time you
want."
  The housekeeper rushed back into the dining room
carrying a large bandbox. Jordan took it and
picked up his knife. He punched several
holes in the top before taking it off. Almost
nonchalantly, he transferred the mouse into it and
closed the box. Handing it back to Nina, he said,
"Please bring this to Kyle Reavis and tell him
he's in charge of Cory's friend."
  The woman held the box out in front of her as
she hurried out of the room and Elle sank back
to her seat in fatigue. Hester glared at them,
her table, the servants, and gave a disgusted
look. "If you'll excuse me," she said
to everyone in general. "I believe I shall retire
early."
  Like the Queen Mother, she turned and swept from the
room, leaving the rest of them to stare after
her. Within moments, Elle started to giggle. She
couldn't help it. It was a mixture of nervousness
and hilarity. They had tried so hard to impress and
it had turned inffdisaster. "Oh, Jordan, I'm
sorry," she said, trying to be serious.
  She looked at him and saw the corner of his
mouth lift in a smile. Nodding, Jordan sat
down and it looked like he was biting his bottom lip
to keep from laughing. Soon his shoulders started
to shake and he was no longer able to control it.
Throwing back his head, he started chuckling. It
soon became full, deep belly laughs that
even Julie found contagious. Cory sniffled,
confused by everyone's reaction, but soon he started
giggling. Elle leaned over and straightened
Hester's chair.
  "I don't think we made a great
impression," Elle said and laughed
regretfully.
  "Oh, it was an impression all right,"
Jordan answered with renewed laughter. "I
don't think Hester's had this much excitement
since she left Georgia."
  Elle looked at him and her heart constricted.
He appeared so young, so carefree, as he wiped
at the corner of his eye. He was looking at her
and the children with what seemed like genuine affection.
  "Look," Elle began, anxious to repair
the damage with Hester, "I'll clean up everything
and--"
  "The servants will do it," Jordan said, leaning
over and tousling Cory's hair. "It's all
right. I told you it was my fault. I forgot about
Noah."
  "No. I'll do it," Elle countered, leaning
over to pick up his wine glass. The wine stain
had spread to over twelve inches in width. This
cloth was probably in Hester's family for
generations. She stood up and looked at one of the
young girls who waited by the doorway.
  "Perhaps you could make up something for the children to eat in
the kitchen?"
  The girl nodded. "Si, se@nora." She
turned and left.
  That was easy, Elle thought. "Now Julie and
I will take care of this. You go have brandy and a cigar
someplace else, okay?"
  He merely stared at her.
  "Isn't that what gentlemen do after dinner?" she
asked with a laugh.
  He shook his head in defeat as he rose. But
Elle also saw that he was smiling. It was a good
sign.
  When Jordan was gone, Elle said to the children,
"Cory, you aren't in trouble, but we do have to make
this up to Mrs. Morgan. First go into the kitchen
through that door and finish eating. Then you can help me
with this tablecloth. The two of us are going to get this
wine out."
  Looking at the ever-darkening stain, Elle vowed
she would scrub it until her knuckles were raw
if that's what it took to restore the beautiful
white cloth to its former condition.
  Somehow, she would make this up to Hester.

              Chapter 24

  "Momma used to tell us bedtime stories
sometimes."
  "Really? I don't know, Julie. I
don't think I'm very good at that kind of thing."
Elle tucked the sheet under Cory's chin and
touched the soft skin of his cheek in a gentle
caress. "What kind of stories?"
  "Mostly from the Bible," Julie answered,
sitting up in bed and smoothing the daisy quilt
over her lap.
  Elle sat on the edge of Cory's cot and
took his hand in hers. "I don't know that many
stories," she said thoughtfully, "but let me see
..." She searched her brain for one that the children would
like.
  And then it hit her. She smiled with
anticipation.
  "Okay, I've got one. Now listen ..."
She smiled at both children. "Once upon a time, in
a time far into the future, there was a girl named
Dorothy. Dorothy wanted something better than
her own life and she knew it was out there. She just
didn't know how to get it. So she decided
to leave her home and her family and search for it.
She took a huge airplane, a ship with wings
that flies high above the clouds, and landed in a
strange land--a place much different from her
home. She doesn't fit in and she's frightened
because there's nothing familiar about this place. She
has, in fact, gone back in time--"
  "Back in time?" Julie asked. "To when?"
  Elle nodded. "To now. To this time. It would be as
if you went to sleep and woke up a
hundred years ago, during the Revolutionary
time, when America was ruled by the King of England.
Think how you would feel."
  "I wouldn't like it," Julie said
emphatically.
  "Neither did Dorothy. Anyway," Elle
continued, "Dorothy is all alone in this strange
place. She regrets leaving everything familiar
and thinks "there's no place like home" and she
desperately wants to get back. But then ..."
and Elle paused for emphasis, "she meets a
prince."
  Julie sighed with appreciation, sure the story
was now going to be to her liking.
  "The prince offers to help her, to rescue her,
and she goes away with him on a grand adventure.
They meet up with Indians and cowboys and
thieves, but the prince is very strong and very
smart--"
  "And very handsome," Julie interrupted, as though
it were a necessary element to the story.
  Elle laughed and said in a sincere voice,
"Yes. He was very handsome with dark hair and blue
eyes so light they reminded Dorothy of the water
in the Caribbean. And a tiny scar over his left
eyebrow to show that he was a great warrior and very
brave."
  "What's the Caribbean?"
  Elle blinked, realizing whom she'd been
describing. She glanced at Julie and said,
"Never mind. It isn't important.
Anyway, on one of their adventures they meet
up with two children, two little munchkins, who also need
rescuing," and she tickled Cory's belly
until he laughed. "Dorothy secretly
strikes a deal with a Great Wizard that if she
helps the children then he will send her back to her time,
so she and the prince start looking for somewhere special
to place their charges. At first the prince tries
to solve all their problems, but everywhere they go just
isn't right. There's always something that makes them
search even further. Finally, because they are so
close to his castle, he decides to take them
there until they figure out what to do. But then
Dorothy realizes that this is where they all belong.
This is the perfect place, exactly what they
had been looking for. But she was afraid the prince
might not let them stay--"
  "Why?" Julie demanded. "Because of the Wicked
Witch? There's always a wicked witch."
  Elle sighed with resignation. She hadn't
intended to introduce that factor. "Okay, because the
Wicked Witch didn't want them there. But the
children didn't need to worry, because princes aren't the
only ones who can fight. Dorothy is also very
smart, and remember she has knowledge about the future and
secret things no one else in the prince's time
knows about."
  "What does she do?" Julie asked, leaning
forward with interest.
  Elle thought for a moment, unsure herself. Finally
she said, "She makes up a magic potion of
love and weaves her spell around the prince and the
witch--who was really just a very lonely and sad
woman. Soon the prince begins to see Dorothy
and the children for who they really are. He realizes how
important they have become to him and knows he
doesn't want them to leave."
  "What does he do?"
  Elle looked at Julie and felt her
throat closing with emotion. "He ... he tells
Dorothy that he loves her. That he wants her
to be his princess and live happily ever after. Like
in all the good stories."
  Julie twisted the long braid that hung over
her shoulder. "But what about her family? She
never goes back home?"
  Elle felt a chill run up her back as
she grasped the ending to the story. Her voice was
low, thoughtful. "But don't you see? She is
home, Julie. There is no place like home
when somebody loves you."
  They sat in silence for a few moments and then
Julie said, "I liked it. You made it sound like
us."
  Elle leaned over and kissed Cory's
forehead. She rose and walked over to the teenager.
Bending down, she placed a light kiss on
Julie's cheek. "I'm glad you liked it. But
it was only a story."
  Elle walked toward the door. "Now go
to sleep. Both of you. Tomorrow's going to be a busy
day."
  "Why? What are we going to do?"
  Elle looked at the two children and a wave of
love washed over her. "We're going to start
figuring out how to fit in here. That's what."
  She blew them a kiss. "Now, turn down the
lamp. Good night, munchkins." Smiling when she
heard Cory's low giggle, Elle
left the room.
  If her timing had been different, she would have
come face to face with the man who had been standing
outside the doorway for the past ten minutes,
listening to her fairy tale.
  Of course, even princes knew when to beat a
hasty retreat.
               * * *
  She heard a noise beyond the wall and stopped
brushing her hair to stare at the connecting door.
He was in there. Placing the brush back on the
table, Elle glanced at her reflection. The thin
white gown of silk must have been what Cynthia
planned to wear on her wedding night.
Unconsciously, Elle realized she had been
preparing for just such a night. She had bathed,
rubbed jasmine scented oil into her skin and brushed
her hair until it shone in the soft yellow light
from the lamp.
  But there would be no wedding night. Not tonight--
maybe not ever.
  This was not the fairy tale she had told the children.
This was reality, or what passed for reality right
now. And the simple fact was that although she was a
wife, she was not wanted.
  Climbing into bed, she lowered the wick on the
oil lamp and cast the room into darkness. As she
lay back against the plump feather pillow, she
stared at the door opposite the bed and wondered
what she should do. What if he came in?
What if he didn't?
  Minutes passed in a quiet torture of
indecision. Face it, Elle, she told herself,
he's not coming. He doesn't consider you his real
wife.
  But what do you want?
  The question repeated itself in her brain, until she
pressed at her temples to drive it out. When
she was successful, it was only replaced
by another, one even more haunting.
  Do you love him?
  She pictured the morning she had seen him and
Cory sleeping in Alexander, the morning she
realized that she was the one that would be hurt in this
relationship. She had accepted it then, knowing it would
never work out for them. But now ... mental images
of Jordan and the children together on the trail, of the
magical night in Decatur when they had made
love, flashed through her mind. She saw him
dancing with Julie at their wedding,
carrying Cory up to bed in the hotel. Cory
brought out a side to Jordan that even the man
hadn't known existed. There was a special bond
between them and she loved to see them together. Like tonight at
dinner. Already he treated the child like a son.
  But do you love him? she demanded of herself.
  Yes! The answer was immediate, and in her heart
she knew it was the truth.
  Then do something about it--before it's too late.
  Who was this, filling her mind with questions and demands?
Was it her conscience? Or--
  Suddenly her eyes opened wider and she stared
about the moonlit room.
  She knew.
  Okay ... I'm here. Can we
re-negotiate? This is the perfect place for the
children and I know I said once I found that then you would
have to take me back to my own time. That was the deal,
but I want to change it. I don't want to go
back. Her eyes filled with tears. I
want to stay. I want to make him love me.
I don't want to leave him or the children. Can't
we think of something else I can do? Can't I
give up something else? Not him. Not the children.
Please ...
  Some might think it was arrogant to back out of a
deal with God, even to re-negotiate a new
one. Some might call it disrespectful or
irreverent. For Elle Mackenzie McCabe it
was a desperate, fervent prayer. One that she
might never know was answered, until it was too
late.
               * * *
  It was good to be home, to enjoy the comforts he had
worked so hard to provide. There was a great deal of
satisfaction and pride when he looked about the
large bedroom. Sitting in a striped wing chair,
Jordan sipped his brandy and stared at the
oak-paneled door. He was clad only in his
underwear, the short cotton longjohns that Nina
had cut and hemmed above the knees.
  She was in there. And that knowledge created an
unwelcomed ache in his groin. He shouldn't want
her. He should contact his lawyers and get rid of
her. Send her away.
  But he knew he wouldn't. In truth, he was
fighting a battle inside his head, a war of
indecision. Should he open the door and go in to her?
They could just talk. It wouldn't have to lead to sex.
Who the hell was he kidding? He wanted
it to lead to sex. That would be his real motivation.
  He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration.
Now that he had heard her story to the children, he
wanted her more than ever. In the quiet of the night,
he admitted that he had always wanted her. From the
very first. Even when he had seen her with Kyle and
Traver as they came up to camp outside of
Wichita, even then he had been taken with her.
He laughed aloud when he remembered how she
spoke to him the first time. Hearing her slurred
speech, he'd thought she was deficient, even
feeble-minded. Elizabeth Mackenzie had
certainly provided him with more food for thought, more
frustration and more laughter than he'd had in many
years.
  But it was the laughter, the good feelings she
created, that made him want her even more. He
missed being happy, and he didn't know how much
until she had come into his life. Sure, she was
smart and capable of manipulation. But she wasn't
disloyal, or unfaithful. Now that he thought about
it, most of her manipulations were done for the children.
That's where Elizabeth was her best--with the children. She
was a natural mother.
  And that bedtime story? Now what did that really
mean? He had only gone to the children's room to say
good night when he'd heard her voice. Stopping
in the hallway, he'd listened. At first he had
been amused, as entertained as the children with her little
fantasy about the girl named Dorothy from the
future. But soon it became apparent that she was
talking about herself ... and him.
  Did she love him? The question seemed foolish,
except he remembered that night in Decatur.
It was a torturous memory that no amount of
concentration could wipe out. If he had asked that question
in Decatur, the answer might have been easy.
But now? He wished he could have seen her face
while she told her story. He was sure it would
have revealed a lot, especially during the part where
the prince told the girl of his love. What did
she say in the end? That there was no place like home
when somebody loves you?
  That was so true. Yet he'd never really felt
that kind of happiness here at Peachtree Point.
Maybe now ...
  He held his breath when he heard the noise
coming from her room. It was soft, muffled, like the sound
of someone crying.
  Why was she crying?
  He got up and walked to the door. He
barely breathed as he stood before it. Waiting ...
If he heard it again, he was going in.
  It would be the perfect opportunity.
               * * *
  The dream was so real. She knew she was
sleeping yet, it almost felt as if she could reach
out and touch her mother. Frightened, yet compelled,
Elle's fingers moved forward ...
  Margie Mackensie's skin felt cool.
It was as if her body temperature was lower than
others because she rarely went outside. She was
reading her magazine, studying the pictures and the
captions that described the glamorous places she
would never see in person.
  At eighteen, Elle should have been used to her
mother's preoccupation but now she needed her. She had
spent two hours in her bedroom trying to build
up the courage to come out and speak, and she had less
than an hour before her father came home.
  It was now or never ... Silently Elle
wondered why it couldn't be "never." She couldn't
believe that she was about to have this conversation. But then,
probably every girl in trouble tells herself it can't
happen to her. Only to other people ... But she had
thought--it didn't matter any longer. How could
she have been so stupid? So gullible?
  "Mom, I have to talk to you."
  Her mother looked up and smiled. "What is
it?"
  Elle could only stare back. Already she
felt the tears coming to her eyes. How could there be
any tears left? Ever since she had found out
five days ago, she'd done nothing but cry.
"Mom, I ... I'm ..." She couldn't say
it. Instead the traitorous tears rolled down her
cheeks.
  Margie closed her magazine and asked,
"What? What's wrong."
  Elle swiped at the moisture blurring her
vision and clutched her mother's hand. Her throat
closed off and she couldn't force the words past. She
just stared at her mother, silently begging her to understand.
  Suddenly, Margie's eyes widened in
horror. "Oh, my God! No! Please,
Elle. Please ... No!"
  Sobbing, Elle nodded. "I'm
pregnant."
  There was a flash of true sorrow on her
mother's face, only to be quickly
replaced by fear. "Oh, my God ... your father!
What will he do?"
  "Mom, please--forget about him for a minute!
What will I do?"
  Margie stared at her daughter, so bright, so
pretty. She had already been accepted to the State
University in the fall. All Elle's plans
for a better life were ruined. It was so unfair for the
sins of the parents to be visited on the children.
Filled with anger, Margie asked in a tight
voice, "Who's the father?"
  Elle shook her head. "It doesn't
matter."
  "Of course it matters! He'll have to marry
you, that's all."
  Elle was desperate. "Mom! I can't
marry him. I don't want to marry him! And he
feels the same way. The most he'll do is
help pay ..." Her voice trailed off. How
could she say this?
  "Pay what? Your medical expenses?"
Her mother's voice held a distinct note of
bitterness.
  "Yes," Elle muttered. "Medical
expenses."
  "And then what?" Margie demanded, clutching
her hands together in front of her. "How will you
support this child? We're barely getting along as
it is. Why, your father will--"
  Elle interrupted, "I don't expect
either of you to take care of me or ... or anything
else."
  "You would put the baby up for adoption?"
  "I can't have it," Elle moaned in
desperation. "I can't!"
  It only took a few moments for Margie
to grasp her daughter's meaning. Her eyes
widened with shock. "Elle!"
  It was finally out, and Elle was crying like a
six-year-old. She was so ashamed, so aware of
her mother's shock. Her mom had always been so
proud of her, bragging to her aunt of Elle's
accomplishments. And now this.
  Margie ran a hand over her eyes.
"Okay ... there are other ways out."
  "No there aren't. Don't you think I've
thought over everything? I wanted to run away
to save you the embarrassment, but I had nowhere
to go." Elle's nose was running and she wiped at
it with the back of her hand. "Mom ...
Please! I'm all alone in this." Her hand
fumbled with the paper in the back pocket of her
jeans. She tore it out and slid it across the table.
She was crying so hard that speech was almost
impossible, but she had to get it over with. "If
... if you'll just sign this, I'll take care of
everything else."
  Unfolding the paper, Margie read it
quickly. She looked up to her daughter with a startled
expression. "This is a permission slip for a ...
an ..." She couldn't even say the word. "How can
I sign this?"
  "What else can I do? Do you think I
want to do this?" Elle sobbed. "Don't you
understand? There is no future with the father. He
doesn't even want to hear any more about it. He
gave me two hundred dollars and an address
if I can't go through the clinic. I'm the one with the
problem, that's what he says. He's going
to college in the fall. His life goes on.
Mine stops here unless I do something--"
  The front door opened and John
Mackenzie walked in, making a good show of
acting sober, even though his family could tell the
second they saw him that he'd been drinking.
  "What's goin' on?" he mumbled, dropping
his lunch pail on the table.
  Margie made a swipe for the white piece
of paper, but John grabbed her arm. "What'cha
got there?" he demanded. "Another shut-off
notice?"
  Margie frantically tried to retrieve the
paper. "That's it. Just let me file it away
with the others, okay?"
  "Wait a minute ... wait ..." He
attempted to focus his vision and read the typed
words. "Permission to terminate pregnancy?"
He stared at his wife and then back at the paper,
as if not believing his eyes. And then he read the
name ... Elizabeth Mackenzie.
  He turned on her like a wild animal.
"Whore! You whore!" His fist reached out and
connected with the side of her head, sending Elle off
the chair and onto the floor.
  Margie screamed and ran to her daughter.
Cradling Elle's head in her arms, she shouted
back, "Don't you ever touch her again! I'll
kill you if you do!"
  "Oh, you will, will ya?" He reached down and
grabbed his wife's hair, pulling her
away from Elle. "What more should I expect,
huh? Like mother, like daughter. The two of you--like
bitches in heat!"
  Dazed, Elle saw him throw her mother against
the wall and she crawled to her feet. It was hate
that forced her to rise, to swallow down the nausea,
the dizziness, the scream. "Leave her alone!
She didn't do anything!"
  He turned back to her, an equal amount
of hate showing on his face. Slowly he walked
in her direction, and Elle backed up. "No,
she did her damage eighteen years ago with you and
I've been paying for it ever since." His voice
was like a dull razor, uneven yet deadly--and it
sliced through her.
  "All that time spent with your head in those
books ... just pretending, just waiting." He
kept coming and Elle kept backing away.
"You're nothing more than a slut," he spat out,
ripping up the permission slip and throwing the
pieces to the floor. "And now you think you can just
get rid of it? Didn't those nuns teach you
anything in the twelve years I sent you to that
school? Answer me!"
  Elle could barely think. She had never seen
him this crazy. The look in his eyes was terrifying
and she felt cornered. "Yes," she cried "They
taught me rules made up by men--men who'll
never have to worry about becoming pregnant."
  The fury building inside of him caused his
face to turn a mottled red. "You've got an
answer for everything," he yelled. "Everything but
this!"
  He backhanded her across the face, so hard that
she spun around toward the stairs. She tried
to stop her fall, but it was too late. She never
remembered actually falling, only staring into her
mother's face as she lay in the tiny foyer that led
to their apartment. For a few moments there was no pain,
only stunned shock and confusion. It wasn't
until her mother took her hand that she saw the
blood soaked into the sleeve of her yellow
sweater. Then she started shaking ...
  "Elle--can you get up? Can you walk?" her
mother asked softly, calmly.
  Surely her mother wouldn't be that calm if she
was really hurt. Confused, Elle nodded and tried
to sit up. She felt battered and bruised
inside, as if something were out of line. Something was
wrong. She stood with her mother's help and
sat on the bottom stair.
  "I'm going to go upstairs and get my
purse and yours, and then we're going to go to the
hospital. Okay?"
  Now Elle knew what was in her mother's
voice. It was controlled panic. Trying not
to think, Elle nodded. Maybe she was dying.
Maybe this was her punishment ...
  Even though Margie Mackenzie fought like a
lioness, they were refused medical attention at
two hospitals because they had no insurance. A
kindly nurse shoved gauze and foil packets
of antiseptic into Margie's hands and told them
it was all she could do. Enraged, Margie helped
Elle back into the car and bandaged her scalp.
While driving to the third hospital, the cramping
started. It came on slowly, nothing too
different from all the other aches and pains in her
body. But then it increased. It was more than
cramps and soon Elle was curled up against the
door, crying.
  "Mommy," she whispered, like the frightened child that
she was. "I--I think I'm--I'm bleeding."
  "It's all right, honey. I stopped the
bleeding. Don't you remember? With the bandages.
It's not coming through."
  Elle's fingers were shaking as she put them between
her legs and felt the dampness. "No," she
whimpered and raised her hand.
  It was covered in blood.
  "Oh, my God!" Margie sounded as
frightened as her child. She pulled the car over to the
side of the road and clutched Elle's hand. She
had to do something! This was her child! Two hundred
dollars. That's what Elle said she had.
Margie knew it would never pay for the DandCan her
daughter needed to stop the bleeding. No hospital
would touch them. Finally, with more courage than she had
ever summoned in her life, she said, "Do you have that
address that boy gave you?"
  Elle's shoulders were shaking; her body was
racked with sobs, and pain, and deep humiliation.
How could she do this to her mother? How could she make
her mother a part of this?"
  "Elle. Please! Listen to me. Do you have
it in your purse? You're already losing the baby.
You're not going to lose your life. We're going
to get you some kind of medical care--somewhere! Now,
is it in your purse?" She was already looking in the
small fake leather bag.
  "In ... in my wallet," Elle gasped
as another contraction wrapped itself around her
abdomen and doubled her over in intense pain.
  Margie switched on the inside light and
took out the wallet. She threw pictures of
smiling girls in high school uniforms on the
seat until she came upon the small, tightly
folded piece of paper. Her hands were shaking as
she held it up to the light.
  "Kensington and Allegheny. In
Philadelphia?" It couldn't be worse. She
picked up the wallet and continued her search
until she found the money. Stuffing it into her own
purse, she said, "I'm going to take care of you,
Elle. I promise. "She picked up her
daughter's hand and squeezed it tightly. "Hold
on to me," she said, while throwing the car into drive
with her free hand. "Yell, or scream, if it
gets too bad. I won't let go of you. I
won't let anything else happen to you. I
promise."
  Within minutes they were On Route I, heading
south toward Philadelphia. Fifty-five
minutes later, Margie was arguing with a
gray-haired woman with a cigarette hanging from
her bottom lip, telling the woman that her
daughter had already miscarried in the car and needed
help. In less than two hours they were back
on Route I, heading toward Margie's sister's
home in Newtown. It would take years before either
of them knew the extent of the mental and physical
damage rendered that night.
  Elizabeth Mackenzie would never be able to have
children.
  Elle always considered it just punishment for what
she had been considering. She hadn't wanted to be
pregnant. And now she never would. But it seemed
so unfair, so cruel. And there was a part of her that
raged against such retribution. It taught her one
thing, though, one valuable lesson:
  There is no easy way out, and you can't get
away with anything.

  The room was cast in shadows, yet he followed
the sound. It reminded him of the whimperings of an
injured child--soft, plaintive, reaching in and grabbing
your gut because you knew someone helpless was suffering.
He walked over to the bed and looked at her.
  She had twisted the bedclothes around her and was
moaning. The sound that came from her
reminded him of someone mourning, and he whispered her
name into the night.
  "Elizabeth?"
  She didn't respond, so he sat on the bed
and touched her shoulder. "Elizabeth, wake up.
You're dreaming again."
  Awakening with a start, she called out, "Mom?"
  "No. It's Jordan. You must have had another
nightmare." He reached out and pushed a strand of
hair off her forehead. Her skin was damp to the
touch.
  "Jordan?" She sounded confused, yet
relieved.
  And then she did the most startling thing. She
reached out for him, curling herself against him, and he
instinctively wrapped his arms around her.
  "Oh, God--it was so real. Like it was happening
again." She cried against his shoulder.
  "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked
gently.
  She sniffled and shook her head. She buried
her face against his chest and his arms tightened, as if
to protect her from whatever torment gripped her at
night.
  Neither of them said anything, and Jordan waited
in silence for her to calm down. But his brain was
filled with thoughts--thoughts of Elizabeth at
dinner, so pretty and trying so hard to make
Hester like her and the children. He thought about the way she
had shown an interest in the Triple Cross,
wanting him to know that she was impressed with his home.
Hester had told him about the deal Elizabeth had
worked out for Cory and he admired the way she'd
handled that. Instead of screaming at Noah, as the
mouse scurried across the dinner table, she had
calmly captured the creature and then given in
to spontaneous laughter. Laughter ... he
hadn't heard that kind of merriment in this house in
many, many years.
  And he knew now, now that his arms were around her,
that she belonged here all along. That maybe,
somehow, Fate had stepped into his life and brought
him the right woman after all. She wasn't
perfect. She had a shadowy past and delusions of
being from the future. It was frightening to hear her speak
of it, yet she sounded so convincing at times that he
almost believed her. But not quite. They could deal with that
later. Right now, he had an important
decision to make.
  If he wanted her as a wife, a
real wife, a real mother to Cory and Julie, then
he was going to have to do something about it. This was their first
night together under this roof, and if he walked out of this
room alone it would set a precedent for the
marriage.
  It only took a moment for him to decide. This
time, this marriage was going to be right. He knew
what he must do.
  Gathering her up in his arms, Jordan rose from
the bed.
  "What are you doing? Where ... where are we
going?" she asked sleepily, holding on to his
shoulders.
  He smiled, thinking of her story to the children.
"C'mon, princess. We're going home."

              Chapter 25

  She snuggled against the heat, reluctant to open
her eyes. Something tickled her nose, but she
tried to ignore it, wanting to enjoy the comfort found
moments before complete awakening. Again, she felt the
sensation and sleepily raised her eyelids.
  Hair. And skin. Not just hair, but soft,
curling hair--the kind of hair on a man's
chest. Instantly awake, her eyes widened with
surprise.
  Jordan. It was Jordan. What was she doing
against Jordan? Without raising her head, she
looked around the bedroom, decorated in
burgundy and hunter green. Ralph Lauren
would feel right at home with the color scheme and the
rich, heavy furniture. She was afraid
to move, for fear of waking up the man beneath her. But
what if he were already awake? What if he were
looking at her, waiting for her to move, to get off
him? Frantic questions seized her mind and she
froze, afraid to even breathe too heavily.
Unable to stand it any longer, Elle slowly
turned her head.
  He was still asleep. She breathed a sigh of
relief and took a moment to study him. A dark
shadow was beginning to show on his face, where his beard
had grown overnight. His skin was firm and
deeply tanned and his hair was tousled and falling
onto his forehead. Dear God, but he was handsome.
  And you love him, a voice inside her
announced joyfully.
  She smiled and rested her head back against his
chest. It felt right. She remembered
now that Jordan had brought her in here last night.
Again, she'd had a nightmare, and this one was worse
than before. But she wouldn't think about that now. Now
she wanted to concentrate on the moment, for it might
not last very long. Any minute now he could wake
up and that would certainly prove awkward. Right now
she wanted to enjoy him.
  His hand was resting on his stomach, inches away from
her face, and she studied his fingers--the lines around
his knuckles, the tiny hairs below that. They were
strong hands, hands that had gently caressed her
hair last night as she fell back to sleep,
hands that had done astonishing things to her the night before
they were married. She felt a tightening deep in
her belly when she thought about the one time they had
made love. It only made her want him more.
  But what should she do? Court him?
  Court him? Hmm ... the idea had merit,
Elle thought. What could she lose? After
traveling the Chisholm Trail through three
states, she had very little pride left. Now how
did one go about courting a man--a gentleman of the
nineteenth century?
  She could play the shy, Southern belle
routine, but Jordan already knew her to be the
exact opposite. That wouldn't work.
  Just be yourself, she thought. And somehow show him how you
feel. Deciding to be brave, Elle lifted
her hand and touched his fingers. The tips of her own
fingers barely grazed his, and she let her
nails travel up his wrist. She smiled when
she saw how his skin reacted. His arms broke out
in gooseflesh. Ahh ... Jordan
McCabe, she thought with satisfaction. Your
body betrays you. He brought his arm up and
stretched, causing his chest to rise and her along with
it. She pretended to awaken with him and lifted her
head with what, she hoped, was a very sleepy
expression.
  "Good morning," she said with a yawn.
  He issued a knowing smile and said good morning
without a yawn, or any trace of being asleep.
  He couldn't have been awake, Elle reasoned.
Or, was he?
  "Thank you," she said in a hesitant voice.
"Thank you for letting me sleep here."
  "You're welcome." He still had that grin on his
face.
  "I-I don't know why I keep having
nightmares. I never used to, not since
I was a child."
  Nodding, Jordan brushed the hair back off
his forehead. "You've had a lot of changes in your
life. It's understandable."
  She accepted his reasoning and added, "Last
night--well, I suppose I needed the
presence of another human, and I ... I just
wanted you to know I appreciate it."
  Why was he still grinning at her like that? It was
beginning to get unnerving.
  "Elizabeth," he finally spoke. "You
don't have to keep thanking me for bringing you in here.
This is where you sleep."
  Now she was puzzled and she moved away from him.
"What? In here? But Hester said--"
  Jordan sat up and Elle noticed the sheet
didn't move with him. He wore white underwear
that came down his thighs. "Forget what Hester
said," Jordan interrupted. "This is where you are
to sleep. In here. With me."
  He stared at her, waiting for her objection.
Elle stared right back. In truth, it would have been
hard to look away. She knew he was half
expecting her refusal. Instead, she nodded.
"All right," she said simply.
  He nodded back in agreement. Satisfied,
he swung his legs over the side of the bed and
stood up. "I'll be working in my office most
of the day, going over accounts for the house and the ranch.
Perhaps if you feel like it, later, I can show you and the
children around the Triple Cross."
  "We'd love it," she said, happy with his
suggestion. She sat back to watch as he opened
his wardrobe and picked out a gray pair of
trousers and a white shirt. It was just like being
married, she thought cheerfully and stopped herself.
  I am married, she mentally corrected,
and a wide smile appeared at her lips.
Isn't Hester going to be shocked to learn she and
Jordan might have exchanged "effluvia" last
night? She had to bring her knuckle up to her
mouth to stop from giggling. Heck, with any luck,
they might get to the vital forces and excessive
emotions part the older woman found so distasteful.
  Hidden by the sheet, the fingers on her left hand
were crossed.

  Hester Hunt Morgan had left
Atlanta, Georgia, as soon as she had found
out her daughter was pregnant. On the
trip west, her mind had conjured up every story she
had heard about Texas. Blistering heat.
Marauding Indians. Desolation. Her heart had
been heavy, and her only consolation was the fact that
a large contingent of Atlanta folk had picked
up after the war and settled into northeast Texas--
building a new Atlanta with its graceful
homes and warm hospitality. She hadn't
expected much from Jordan McCabe, for the man
was near penniless when he went to seek his fortune.
Like so many others, Jordan had lost everything,
including family. Hester had been hoping for a
small, clean home in the new settlement.
What she had found, even now, sometimes took her
breath away.
  Peachtree Point would have been a showplace in
any time, any state, and Hester took it as her
God-given duty to keep it that way. Charlotte
hadn't had the interest, God bless her soul, in
housekeeping or supervision. She was such a child at
heart. Yet, who could blame her? Her
childhood, and the years following the war, had robbed
Charlotte of the carefree times that were her right. She
had only been trying to get them back when times were
good. That's why she and Jordan had furnished the
house with only the best. Jordan had indulged
her daughter's every whim, and perhaps, that was why
Charlotte's head could so easily be turned
by attention.
  Hester refused to think about the filthy rumors
that had circulated after her daughter's death.
That's all they were--rumors, dead and buried
along with the only grandchild she would ever have. That
grieved her more than she had ever let on. To this
day she couldn't understand why God had punished her
so cruelly--to take away her only daughter
and the babe along with Charlotte.
  Now she had nothing. Nothing but Peachtree
Point.
  But now the house had a new mistress. Fear
gripped her heart when she realized that her own
place in the household was questionable. By all rights,
Jordan could ask her to leave.
  She had nowhere to go, not anymore. Hester had
no desire to go back to Georgia. The war had
changed the face of Atlanta, and those who had
rebuilt were not the same genteel families that
she had known. All the letters from her old friends
told of Carpetbaggers sweeping down over the
city and taking over. Why, even the
VanScivers were living in a three-bedroom
house on Jackson Street in a
neighborhood Hester had never set foot in.
And she refused to live on charity extended to her
by those who had rebuilt here in Atlanta,
Texas.
  Realizing her situation might very well be
grave indeed, Hester pulled herself up the stairs
--not even noticing that the banister rails had yet
to be dusted this morning. Her mind was filled with
thoughts other than housekeeping--like the fact that
Nina had happily announced she had brought
Se@nora McCabe's coffee into the master
bedroom. So they had spent the night together ...
It was a marriage then, Hester thought grimly.
For a short time yesterday, she had entertained the
notion that Jordan and Elizabeth were not the
picture of a happily married couple.
Obviously, she was wrong.
  And Elizabeth was surprising, too. She had
stood up for the boy yesterday, even though Hester
had done her best to make the easterner back down.
The fiasco at the dinner table last night had
nearly undone her, yet the young woman had been
a surprise. Nina had said Elizabeth had
washed the wine stain out of the tablecloth herself, and had
left instructions that when it was dried this morning,
no one but her was to iron it. She didn't have to do
that, Hester admitted. But she knew in her heart
she would have done the same thing. Hester had been
expecting Cynthia Warden, a woman from a
family that she knew. The adjustment wouldn't have
been easy, yet eventually they would have come to an
understanding--being from like backgrounds. But this? Who was this
woman, Elizabeth Mackenzie?
  She and the boy were accompanying Jordan on a
tour of the ranch and, as Hester walked down the
hallway, she wondered how she was supposed to go
on living here. Still, how could she bear to leave?
Elizabeth said she didn't want to take
Charlotte's place, yet that was already
accomplished. And she also said she didn't want
to take over the running of the house. Perhaps, when the
time was right, she and Elizabeth should sit down and
discuss what was to happen.
  In her mind, she had always thought of Peachtree
Point as Charlotte's home. But Charlotte
had been gone for years now. It was Jordan's--
and now his wife's.
  She stopped at the doorway to the
children's room and watched as the young girl ran a
faded cloth over the dresser. She had wondered
why Julie didn't go with her brother to see the
ranch. She'd thought perhaps the girl was sick and had
wanted to rest. But there was something about the child, something
about the way her hand lovingly rubbed the oak wood,
almost in a caress, that made Hester continue
to stare. Soon, the girl noticed her and jumped,
standing straight up and twisting the cloth in her hands,
as if she had been caught doing something she
shouldn't.
  "We have servants to dust," Hester said
stiffly.
  "Oh, no, ma'am," Julie quickly
replied. "Nobody has to clean up after me.
I don't mind. I--I--"
  "Yes?" Hester walked into the room. The bed
was neatly made. There were no clothes lying about.
If it were not for the cot, Hester wouldn't even know it
was occupied. The child was neat, if nothing else.
"What were you going to say? You don't have to be
afraid to speak, you know."
  Julie swallowed nervously and then took a
deep breath. "I--ah, I never had anything so
fine as this before," she said, glancing about the room.
"It's a pleasure to keep clean. The wood
shines so pretty when you rub it. And ... and the
quilt. My momma made a patch quilt
once, but it wasn't near as beautiful as this
daisy one. Somebody sure put in a lot of
work on it."
  Hester gazed at the bed covering. "Yes," she
said thoughtfully. "I did."
  Julie looked surprised. "You made it?"
  Hester nodded and walked over to the bed. She
traced a white petal with her fingertip. "Many
years ago. In Atlanta. I was a young woman
then. I made it for my daughter." Hester
recalled how Charlotte had taken it for
granted, spilling tea on it, never remembering
to remove her shoes before putting her feet up.
It was still lovely, though, but not quite good enough for the main
bedrooms. "Do you sew?" she asked the child.
  Julie nodded. "My mother taught me." She
shrugged. "Not like this, though. We made a dress
once. For the O'Learys' barn raising."
  Hester stared at the girl. "You're from
Kansas?"
  Julie nodded.
  Hester didn't imagine a farm
girl would have an extensive wardrobe. She was
wearing the same dress she had on last night at
dinner. Making up her mind, Hester said, "Come
with me. I want to show you something."
  She turned, knowing the child would follow. She led
Julie down the hall to the last room on the right.
Opening the door, she announced, "This is the
sewing room. Nina and the girls use it to repair
linens and such. But over here," and she crossed the
room to a huge chest and raised the lid. "In
here is material that hasn't been touched in
years. Perhaps you would like to make yourself a dress."
  Julie stared at the muslins and cottons, the
satin and silk remnants. She was stunned. "But
I don't know how. I only helped with
momma's dress. It wasn't for me."
  "Well, of course, I'll assist you,"
Hester said shortly. "We can start right now, if
you'd like."
  Julie was speechless. She could only nod.
  "Fine. Now, which of these materials do you
prefer? Personally, I think the sprigged muslin
would be suitable for a young lady like yourself." Hester
picked up the pale blue cloth with tiny white
flowers and ran her hand over it.
  Julie continued to stare at the woman's hand.
It was lined with age and she wore an odd,
braided ring on her finger.
  "I made it," Hester said, reading Julie's
mind. "It's my daughter's hair."
  Julie had heard of such things ... when a
loved one died to make a thin ring out of their hair.
She had never seen one before. "I wish I had some
of my momma's hair," she whispered. "Her
hair was like that."
  Hester saw the tears filling the child's eyes and
something broke inside of her. The tight band of
pain and resentment around her heart lessened. She
looked at Julie's blond hair and said,
"Then you must have your mother's hair. My
Charlotte's was lighter than yours, but yours is
much thicker. She always wanted thick hair. I
think she would have envied you for that."
  Julie touched her hair. "Really?" To think
someone who had lived here could want anything of hers
seemed ridiculous. "You must miss her,"
Julie said impulsively. Somehow Miss
Hester didn't seem like a wicked witch right
now.
  "I miss her very much," Hester
answered. "Very much."
  Julie felt sorry for the older woman.
Maybe Elle was right. Maybe Miss Hester
was only sad and lonely. "I miss my
momma," Julie muttered.
  Hester nodded. "Yes. I imagine you do.
It's always hard to accept when someone is taken before
their time. All we can do is live out our lives
in a way that would make them proud."
  Julie blinked, causing the tears to rush down
her cheeks. She quickly brushed them away. "I
think she would be happy that Jordan and Miss
Elle adopted us."
  It was unexpected, this sudden affection she
felt for the girl. "I'm sure that she would," she
said softly. Clearing her throat, she added,
"Now, let's look through the pattern books. This
will be our project, just the two of us. Come here and
we'll take measurements."
  As the young girl stood before her, Hester felt
a surge of happiness. Julie reminded her of
Charlotte, with her blond hair and large
inquisitive eyes. Perhaps she could teach this child
all the things her daughter had refused to learn.
Filled with a sense of purpose, she brought out the
heavy book, The Ladies' Treasury--a
Direct System of Ladies' Cutting.
  "Shall we get started?" she asked, and Julie
nodded in agreement.
  Hester actually smiled.

  Elle sat up in bed, her head against the
pillows. She arranged her hair over her
shoulders and undid another tiny pearl button
on the front of her nightgown. Smoothing the
sheet over her thighs, she took a deep breath.
There, she thought. When Jordan comes into the
bedroom, everything will be perfect. She glanced at
the clock encased in a glass dome. Ten
forty-three. He was working late. Any minute,
though, he'll come through the door and see her. His
wife. His bride. A chill of anticipation
rushed through her and she wet her lips, adding the
finishing touch. Maybe she should pinch her cheeks for
color? No. She didn't want to look
blushing, just sexy. Womanly.
  She waited nervously. To pass the time, she
thought over the day. All in all, she was very pleased
with the way it had turned out. She'd had breakfast
with the children, and Emily Post would have been
pleased with their table manners. Then she and Cory
had taken up Jordan's offer of a tour of the
ranch. She was sure Hester was scandalized by her
riding attire. Elle had worn a simple
white blouse tucked into her twentieth-century
slacks. And her ten-gallon cowboy hat. She
was proud of that hat--every smudge and crease had
been earned--and she wore it with honor. Cory
had stopped off at the bunkhouse to play with
Noah and she and Jordan had continued on their
own. He took her off into the hills and showed her
the huge herds of cattle. He said it would take
over a day's ride to reach the end of the Triple
Cross. She couldn't imagine anything that big,
let alone one person owning it. In her time
farmers were selling off their property to make way
for houses and shopping malls. Seeing so much land,
natural and uncluttered, had been breathtaking.
Even though she was a novice, she had enjoyed
riding with Jordan. He seemed particularly
pleased with her interest in the ranch and was happy
to answer all her questions. He had even flirted with
her, making comments about her slacks. She had
told him that if it was good enough for Barbara
Stanwyck and Big Valley, then it was good enough for
her. To say he was confused was an understatement, but
Elle had no intention of trying to explain
television to a man that hadn't grasped the concept
of the telephone.
  They had returned in time to pick up Cory,
who was quickly becoming the mascot of the ranch. An
old cowboy had been trying to show him how to throw a
lariat, and she had glanced at Jordan. He was
smiling at the boy, and she was sure it was pride
that showed in his expression.
  Yes, it had been a pretty good day. Hester
was almost nice to her when they returned to the house.
She and Julie seemed downright friendly, and Elle
was glad the woman was thawing. They really were starting
to fit in with the household. Nina had helped with the
tablecloth, clucking over the Se@nora doing
her work. Even using the old-fashioned iron had
proved quaint, rather than burdensome. Of course,
she was glad that she wouldn't be required to use it
too often ...
  Where was he?
  Elle crossed her arms over her chest and stared
at the door. Enough was enough. And she couldn't hold
this position too much longer. Frustrated, she
got up and put on her robe and
slippers. Oh, well, she did say she was
going to court him. But this was pushing it.
  If Muhammad won't come to the mountain ...
  She knocked on the paneled door and waited
for him to answer. It wasn't until she heard
him say, "Yes?" that she thought about what she was
going to say. She had no idea. Realizing that she
would look like a fool if she walked away, she
turned the handle and opened the door.
  He was behind a massive desk. Papers were
scattered in front of him, and when he looked up
at her she could see the strain in his face.
  "Elizabeth? Is something wrong?"
  Her heart started pounding behind her breast. It was
irrational, and even embarrassing, that she would feel
like a bashful teenager at this moment. "Well,
no," she began, wondering why she couldn't have just
waited for him in the bedroom. "It's after eleven
o'clock. I--I thought you fell asleep down here."
Nervous, she touched the locket that hung from her
neck, her birthday present.
  "I'm sorry. I should have said something to you
earlier." He looked at the papers in front of
him and sighed. "I didn't think it would take this
long."
  "What is it?" she asked.
  He ran his hand over his eyes, as if to clear
his mind. "Just columns of figures that, no
matter how I add them up, tell me the same
thing."
  She came closer to the desk and sat in the
large leather chair opposite him. "And what's
that?"
  "That after I make this quarter's payment to my
Scottish investor, my resources will be
strained. The Herefords and the bull set me back
more than I had first thought."
  Elle saw the tension around his eyes. "It must
take a great deal of money to keep all of this
running. The house and the ranch."
  He nodded. "A great deal." Then, suddenly,
he looked at her. Really looked. And he
smiled. "Does it strike you as odd that you're
sitting here in your robe discussing finances?"
  She grinned. "No. Not particularly. But,
since we are on this subject, can I make a
suggestion?"
  He sat back, relaxing as he stretched his
arms. "Go ahead," he said with a laugh.
  She cleared her throat and
straightened, as if to impart something of importance.
"I think you should invest, Jordan."
  "I did. With the Herefords and the Aberdeen
Angus. I plan to cross-breed them with the
Longhorns."
  She was shaking her head. "I don't mean that.
Not here. Up north."
  "North? Why would I invest in the north, and not
in my own ranch?"
  "Listen, the Industrial Revolution is coming.
I told you about it before. Machinery is going
to replace manpower. Factories are going to be
built. Hundreds and hundreds of them. You should
get in on it. And it's going to start in the north."
  "Elizabeth--" He said her name like a
reprimand.
  "No, wait," she countered, standing up to pace
behind the chair. "I'm not going to talk about coming from the
future. I just want you to remember what I'm
telling you, in case ... in case something happens
and I'm not here to remind you."
  "What are you saying? Where would you be?"
  "I don't know. But you have to remember everything
I'm saying."
  "Do you want to leave?" he asked in a strained
voice.
  "No," she answered impatiently. "I
want to stay here. But if something should happen--
look, maybe you should write all this down."
  "Maybe we should change the subject."
  She stared at him, holding his gaze, and then said
slowly, "I heard you talk about the barbed wire
the farmers are starting to put up in Kansas and
Oklahoma. You're beginning to see the change,
Jordan. The days of driving your cattle
to market up the trails are about to end. You should
petition for a railroad spur to come through the nearest
town. Invest in transportation and communication."
  "I thought you said to invest in factories up
north."
  "Diversify. Spread out your investment. What
is this? 1876? Sometime soon, Alexander
Graham Bell is going to invent the
telephone--"
  "You talked about that before, and I was going to ask you
to explain."
  She leaned on the back of the chair and held up
her hand. "This is going to sound crazy, but it's a
device you talk into. It has something to do with
converting the sound waves in your voice
into electrical currents." She shook her head
with frustration. "I can't explain it. Just
remember to invest in this sucker, because it's going
to make billions."
  He was clearly amused.
  She ignored his expression. "Laugh if you
want, but someday you'll see I was right. And oil!
God, we're right here in Texas. Black
gold. Texas T. Grampa Clampett's
ticket to fame. Listen, Jordan, you might be
sitting on a fortune right under the ground." She was
about to tell him that they should start drilling, but the
thought of derricks sprouting up on the Triple
Cross was depressing. "If you ever hear of
someone drilling for oil, this black goop deep in
the earth, then get in on that, too."
  He was looking at her as if she'd come from
another planet, which wasn't all that far off the
truth. "Anything else?"
  She smiled. Poor thing. She had thrown quite a
bit at him all at once. "No. That's enough for
now. If I think of another great investment later
on, I'll let you know."
  "I'm sure you will." He reached across his desk
and turned down the wick on his lamp until the
room was cast in darkness.
  "What are you doing?" she whispered in a nervous
voice.
  "I can't work now. I don't know how I could
concentrate after hearing about telephones and
Grampa ..." He tried to remember the name.
  She giggled. "Clampett," she filled in.
  "Let's go to bed, Elizabeth," he said, coming
around the desk and taking her arm.
  She was glad it was dark. He couldn't see her
smile.

  She watched him undress and it was hard not
to reach out her hand and run her fingers down his back
when he took off his shirt. He was gorgeous.
Once, so very long ago, she had thought he looked
like Mel Gibson, but he didn't. He
wasn't as pretty. He was more rugged, more male.
And she wanted him more than she thought possible.
She was already excited--waiting for him to come to bed.
  He took off his pants and laid them on the
chair and then his hands went to the waistband of his
shorts. As if they had shared the same room for
years, he pulled them down and threw them over the
pants.
  He was nude! And he was coming to bed!
  Knowing her eyes were wide with shock, Elle
quickly looked away as he walked over to the lamp
and turned it down. He just completely disrobed, as
calm as could be! Never in her life had she
possessed that much confidence, and she envied the male
species that could be so casual about their bodies.
  He got into bed and pulled the sheet up to his
waist. In the moonlight she could see him run his
fingers through his hair as he sighed with exhaustion.
  "Elizabeth?"
  "Yes?"
  "If I ask you a question, will you tell me the
truth?"
  She didn't even hesitate. "Yes.
Yes, I will."
  "Do you think this marriage has a chance in
hell?"
  Thank you, God. "I do," she said
truthfully. "I want it to work." She waited
for a few seconds. "Do you?"
  He didn't answer immediately and the muscles in
her stomach contracted with the suspense of waiting.
Maybe this wasn't going to turn out the way she'd
hoped.
  Finally, he said, "I want to be happy,
Elizabeth. I want a partner, someone to share
my life. You should have seen yourself tonight. You were so
excited, trying so hard to help. And no matter
that three-quarters of what you said sounded crazy, you
were trying. I've never had that before."
  "Jordan," she whispered his name. "Someday
you'll see that everything I was saying is true.
It's all going to happen."
  He turned on his side, facing her. "Are you
saying you can foresee the future? Like a fortune
teller?" There was a note of laughter in his
voice.
  She shook her head. "No. I've been there.
I've lived it. And I know about money and
investments. All I did was make money. I
had no life. I just wanted to prove I was as
good as any man, and better than one in
particular."
  "Your father?"
  She nodded. "But that doesn't matter
anymore." Taking a deep breath, she put it
all on the line--everything, and said what was in her
heart. "I want to share my life with you and the children.
I want to stay here."
  He didn't say anything for a moment, and then
he reached out and raked his fingers through her hair.
Pulling her toward him, he whispered, "Come here,
Elizabeth. I want you to stay, too."
  His mouth covered hers in a possessive kiss
and Elle rejoiced as his arms wrapped around her,
drawing her even closer into his embrace. His
hands pulled at her nightgown, and she broke his
kiss to reach down and eliminate the barrier between
them. When she was nude, his hands cupped her
breasts before moving to her back. Applying the
slightest pressure, he brought her forward,
until they were lying, face to face, their bodies
pressed together.
  She deeply inhaled with pleasure at the touch
of his skin upon hers. He was so warm, almost hot,
and she lightly ran her fingers down his back.
He kissed her again. This time it was deep and
passionate, as if branding her as his. Elle
allowed his tongue to explore her and moaned with
disappointment when his mouth left hers. His lips were
gentle as they placed small kisses along her
neck and shoulder, sometimes nipping at the tender
flesh. Her skin felt on fire as he continued
down her body, lavishing attention on one breast
and then the other, until she thought she would go mad from
wanting ...
  And then she touched him, running her fingers through the
hair on his chest, allowing the tips of her nails
to graze over his nipples. She felt them harden
with desire and heard his sharp intake of breath.
  He grabbed her shoulders and, turning her over,
stared into her eyes.
  "The past doesn't matter," he whispered, and
his voice was thick with emotion. "Not yours, or
mine. This marriage begins now."
  Overwhelmed with tenderness, her eyes filled with
tears. She reached up and caressed his face,
running her hands over his eyes, his cheekbones, his
mustache. "All right," she whispered, tracing the
outline of his bottom lip. "It begins now."
  Jordan lowered his head and kissed her softly.
He hesitated, then kissed her again with the same
gentleness. His skin was hot against hers and she
reached around him to run her palms up and down his
back. His mouth settled against hers as his tongue
slipped between her lips. Slowly, suggestively,
he worked it in and out, making love to her mouth
until Elle moaned with a hunger for something more.
She pressed her palms against his back,
pulling him into her, yet still he seemed content
to hold her face between his hands and kiss her. But
she wanted more. Her body was burning with desire,
to feel the friction of his skin as it moved over
hers, the hard against soft. She ran her hand down
his thigh, placed it beneath his hip, and drew him
closer to her--inviting him into her, and into her life.
  He entered her with maddening slowness, as if
afraid of hurting her, and Elle grew
impatient.
  "Jordan," she breathed against his mouth. "I
want you."
  "I know," he answered, and swiftly buried
himself inside her.
  Elle's body responded instantly, sending
small shudders rippling through her. "Oh, God
..." It was so perfect. The male against
female. Man and woman. Husband and wife.
She clung to him, working with him in partnership,
meeting each thrust with an answering stroke.
Throwing back her head, she closed her eyes and
reveled in the sensations that were growing inside. She
could hear his breathing, the low moans of passion coming
from him, and she delighted in her power, that she was able
to return to him the same pleasure he was giving
to her.
  But soon she was beyond thinking. Her entire being was
centered on feeling ... the brush of his lips over
her shoulder, the grazing of his mustache as it
tickled her skin and sent waves of excitement
racing through her. Each rhythmic stroke of his
body propelled her closer to the edge. And she
raced with him, harder and faster, until she was over
... falling ... bringing him with her, clutching him
tightly against her as if their bodies could meld
into one.
  "Elizabeth!" He called out her name in a
hoarse cry as he came within her, scalding and
fierce, bathing her in the heat of possession. It
was an astonishing moment in time, a slice of
eternity that they had dared to reach out and grasp--and
both of them knew their lives would never again be the
same.
  They didn't move for a full minute, each
too weak and too reluctant to break the spell.
Finally, Jordan raised his head and kissed her
temple. He eased himself off of her and lay on
his side, reaching out and gently brushing the damp
tendrils of hair off her forehead. His fingers
traced a path over her temple, down
her neck, and settled on the chain she wore.
He touched the gold heart that lay nestled in the
hollow of her throat and held it in the palm of his
hand.
  "You always wear it, don't you?" he asked, his
voice not yet steady.
  Nodding, she smiled with happiness and contentment.
"It's my birthday present. I never take it
off. Every time I thought you were going to send me away,
I would reach for it and start playing with it. Maybe
I thought if I held it tight enough, you would
change your mind. It's silly ..." Her
voice trailed off sleepily.
  He picked up her hand and kissed her fingers,
one at a time. And then he stopped and just stared.
  Elle felt the change in him and turned her
head. "What? What's wrong?"
  He dropped her hand and slid off the bed.
  "What are you doing?" she demanded, rising to her
elbows as she watched him cross the room to the
large armoire.
  He opened the doors and pulled out a drawer,
searching through it impatiently. Within seconds, he
grunted in satisfaction and came back.
  "Sit up, Elizabeth. This is
important."
  "Jordan--"
  "No, listen." He took her hand in his and said
in a serious voice. "Our wedding was legal, but
Slaughter left out an important detail--
one I never thought of, until now. Give me your
hand."
  He slipped a thin gold band onto the fourth
finger of her left hand. "It was my mother's," he
said quietly. "No one else has ever worn
it."
  She knew what he meant and was touched that he
made that point. She raised her hand to look at
the ring. It was a simple band of gold. The mark
of a wife.
  Moved beyond words, she forced them past the tight
lump in her throat. "I love you, Jordan."
  He took her in his arms and whispered into her
ear, "I know. I heard your story to the children. Be
my princess, Lizzie? And let's live
happily ever after." He kissed away the tears
that fell past her ear. "I love you, too."


              Chapter 26

  Mrs. Jordan McCabe ...
  Elle looked at the gold band on her finger and
sighed with happiness. She was truly married--in
every sense. And Jordan loved her! How could one
woman be this happy, this blessed?
  Last night they had given a "small" dinner
party for the neighboring ranchers to introduce her and the
children. She should have remembered that she was in Texas,
and small meant eighteen guests. She was a
nervous wreck until Hester, of all people, had
sat her down and explained in her no-nonsense
voice that as the new mistress of Peachtree
Point, these people would be seeking her favor, not the
other way around. Hester had told her that her
position was to be envied and the ranchers and people from
Atlanta would be more nervous trying to impress an
Easterner with their own good manners. She had then
involved Elle and Julie in the plans for the
party, keeping them so busy with every minute detail
that before she realized it, Elle was hurrying to get
dressed.
  Hester. Her turnabout was the biggest
surprise. She had even stopped grumbling about
Elle's riding attire. Every afternoon, she and
Cory went riding across the vast grasslands that
made up the Triple Cross. Cory was far
better at it than she, but Elle was determined
to fit in. And living on a working Texas ranch
meant learning to ride was a priority.
  Walking past Julie's bedroom, Elle
stopped and watched the young girl. Julie was busy
working over a small pillow.
  "Are you sure you don't want to go riding with
us?" Elle asked, walking into the room.
  Julie looked up and smiled. Shaking her
head, she said, "I can't. Melinda Hartford is
coming to spend a few days and Miss Hester said
proper Victorian ladies always made a
gift to show their guests that they were welcomed."
  Elle grinned. Julie was fitting in better
than any of them. Since Hester had taken the
girl under her wing, Julie had turned into a
happy child. She was so eager to please Hester that,
at times, Elle had felt a twinge of
rivalry. She had to admit, however, that Julie
was blossoming under the attention and satisfied herself
with the knowledge that she was Julie's legal mother. There was a
bond between Julie and Elle that could never be
broken. To give Hester her due, she
did seem happy to settle for the role of
grandmother.
  Elle shook the thoughts out of her head. Everything
was turning out perfectly, and she should be grateful.
They were a family, and now Julie even had a
friend. The Hartford girl was from Atlanta and a year
younger, but the two of them had hit it off last night
and plans for a visit were quickly formulated between the
two girls.
  "What are you making?" Elle asked, looking
down at the lace-edged pillow.
  Julie turned it around. "Miss Hester showed
me how to make this pillow and spell out
Melinda's initials with glass beads. She can
take it home with her when she leaves."
  Elle reached down and touched the lace edging.
"It's beautiful, Julie. I'm sure
Melinda will love it."
  "I hope so."
  Smiling, Elle turned to leave. "Don't
worry. She will. Oh, and tell Hester that
Cory and I will be back in plenty of time for
dinner. Bye, sweetie."
  From behind her, Elle heard, "Be careful."
  She laughed. Julie sounded as old as
Hester.

  "C'mon. Let's go back to that creek we
found yesterday," Elle called out to Cory.
"We'll water the horses and then we can head for
home."
  Cory kicked the sides of his horse and
followed her. Traver had fixed the saddle so the
stirrups were just the right size, and he smiled as he
pushed the horse up a small hill. He was
better at it than Miss Elle, he thought with
pride. But then she never grew up with horses,
so it was all right. He loved the ranch, every bit of
it--especially the bunkhouse and the men. Each
morning he went in and fed Noah and all the men
talked to him and taught him things, important
things for being a cowboy. Miss Elle, and
especially Miss Hester, would be mad if they
heard all the cuss words he knew. But he
wouldn't tell. Kyle and Traver and Andy and
Mose and all the others were his best friends, and friends
kept secrets. Like the way Kyle and Julie
met every night after dinner and before bedtime down at the
feed barn. He couldn't figure out why Kyle
wanted Julie to be his best friend too--
she was a girl--but he guessed it was all right.
Julie had stuck up for him when they first came
to the big house and let him sleep in her room.
He remembered being scared then. But now he
slept in his own room. Sometimes he got
afraid when the wind made funny noises and
blew the curtains on his window. Last night he
thought they were ghosts. He knew his momma wouldn't
hurt him, but he was still kinda scared that his daddy
might come back. He couldn't rightly remember
what his parents looked like anymore--
  Lost in thought, Cory was startled as Miss
Elle's horse suddenly reared back! From the
corner of his eye, he saw a small animal
scurry into the tall grass, but he didn't have
time to tell what it was. All he could see was
Miss Elle trying to control her horse as it
stood on its hind legs, trying to throw her off.
  He wanted to shout out to her, to tell her to jerk
back hard on the reins, but his mouth just opened in
shock. It happened so quickly that Cory could do no
more than stare as the big horse lunged backward
again and threw her to the ground. He heard the sound of
her body as it hit and his bottom lip started
to tremble as he watched her horse run away.
Scrambling down off Lightning, he ran to her.
  And that's when he started crying.
  He thought she might be asleep, 'cause her
eyes were closed. Kneeling next to her, he
touched her shoulder. When she didn't wake up,
Cory wiped his nose on the back of his hand, and
tried again. She looked real funny ... she
wasn't dead, 'cause he heard her make a
noise, but she wasn't waking up or moving ...
and her face was the same color as the sky just before
it rains.
  He ran his hand over his eyes to wipe away the
tears. He wasn't supposed to cry, but he
couldn't stop. He looked around him for some help.
There was nothing, except grassy meadows and the
tree line. What was he supposed to do?
  Picking up her hand, he squeezed it hard,
to make her open her eyes. But she wouldn't! She
wouldn't even move! Miss Elle!, his mind
screamed. Don't die ... please, wake
up! He was so mad at himself. He was supposed
to watch out for her. And now she was... she was ...
maybe she really was going to die out here! Just like
his momma and ...
  Crying harder than before, he raced
back to his horse and struggled to get on. It was
too high. Traver had always given him a boost.
Shit for being so goddamned, piss-ant little! He
used all the cuss words he knew as he jerked
on the stirrup. Frantic, he looked around
until he saw a rock. He pulled Lightning
over to it and climbed on top. When he was again in
the saddle, Cory looked once more at Miss
Elle's twisted body and bit his bottom lip
to stop crying--but the tears nearly blinded him
anyway. Kicking hard at the horse's belly,
Cory headed toward Peachtree Point.

  He heard the commotion in the hall and looked up
from his papers. Without warning, the door to his
office shot open and Hester, Kyle and Traver
ran in. Traver was holding Cory. The child was
crying, whimpering into Traver's shoulder.
  For a second they all stared at him, shocked,
until he demanded, "What's wrong? What's
wrong with Cory? Is he hurt?"
  Traver took a step further and even before he
opened his mouth to speak, Jordan was filled with
dread.
  "Cory and Miss Elizabeth went out riding
this afternoon. The boy just came back, holding onto
his horse like the devil was after him. I can't get
nothin' out of him, 'cept he keeps pointing out
to the north."
  Jordan was already out of his chair. He took
Cory from Traver's arms and turned him around
to see his face. It was streaked with dirt and tears,
and he had that sound of a child that's been crying long and
hard. "Cory," he said with false patience,
"where's Miss Elizabeth?"
  Whimpering, Cory pointed outside and started
shaking his head.
  "Cory, listen to me. Is she hurt? Is that
why you came back alone?"
  Cory vigorously nodded.
  "Where is she?" Jordan demanded, fighting
down the panic. "What happened?"
  The child was gulping down tears, opening his mouth as
if struggling to speak. He made little wailing
sounds in frustration.
  And then the sound came, slow at first. "She,
she fell! Her--her horse threw her and she
fell down and got hurt."
  "My God," Hester whispered. "He
spoke!"
  Jordan ignored the miracle and asked in a
tight voice, "Where is she, Cory?"
  The child started to cry again and Jordan held him
close. "I'm not mad at you. I need you now.
We have to help her. Where is she?" he repeated,
fighting for his own control.
  "We--we were going to the lake," Cory
stammered.
  It was all Jordan needed. Carrying the child in
his arms, he said, "All right. You show me.
Traver, you and Kyle follow in the wagon.
Hester, give them bandages and whatever else
you've got." He threw open the wide front
door. "We don't know what to expect."
  For just a moment, Hester stared after Jordan and the
muscles around her heart twisted in pain. It was
just like before, she thought. All those years ago ... with
Charlotte. And she knew Jordan was thinking the
same thing. God wouldn't do this to them again. He
wouldn't ...
  "Miss Hester," Traver said impatiently.
"The bandages?"
  Blinking back her own tears, Hester stared at
the ranch hand. "Yes. Yes, of course," she
muttered, and hurried to the kitchen. Dear God in
heaven, how was she going to tell Julie?

  She fought against the darkness, forcing her eyelids
open. She could hear a buzzing in her ears and
feel the pain ripping at the scar tissue from her
old head injury. When she looked up to the sky,
Elle felt dizzy, as everything started to spin
around her. The clouds whirled in a crazy
pattern; the scene above her rapidly changed,
replacing the clouds with trees and she shut her
eyes to stop the illusion. She felt like she was
floating in darkness, in a black, shadowy
cocoon that wrapped around her and took her away
from the pain ...
  "Can you hear me? Are you all right?"
  Elle almost smiled. Jordan ... He'd
come for her. She knew he wouldn't leave her
alone--
  But it wasn't Jordan's voice.
  It was soft and concerned.
  And feminine.
  In the distance she heard music and a deep,
sexy voice announce, "This is your Hyski,
Hy Lit, bringing you the number one record in this
fifth year of rock 'n roll,
1959's biggest hit--Bobby Darrin's Mack
The Knife ..."
  Mack The Knife? 1959!
  Stunned, Elle forced her eyes open as the
song began. A young woman was bending over her with a
worried expression on her face. Elle
blinked a few times and brought her hand up to shield
her eyes from the sun filtering in through the trees.
The woman above her became more focused--the thick
blond hair, the bright blue eyes lined with
black eyeliner and light blue shadow. The full
mouth colored in peach lipstick. Elle caught
her breath at the achingly familiar face.
  Her heart started pounding and her skin broke out
into a sweat. It couldn't be! No ... it
wasn't possible!
  The young woman looking down at her and smiling
was the picture of ... of ...
  "Who are you?" Elle breathed in fright,
terrified of the answer.
  "Margie Curran. Are you okay?"
  Oh my God! My God! It's my
mother!
  Only it wasn't the woman Elle knew.
This wasn't the sad picture of a defeated,
middle-aged woman, robbed of ever finding
happiness. This woman was young and beautiful and ...
  "Maybe I should get the police," she said
to Elle and raised her head to search for help.
"You don't look real good."
  Elle grabbed her hand. "No," she cried,
afraid the vision would vanish. "Please ..."
  Margie looked back at her. "Hey, I
never saw anyone faint before. I don't know what
to do. Can you sit up?"
  Elle nodded and forced her body to move. She
was on the grass. In a park. She turned her
head and saw familiar buildings. In
Philadelphia.
  How did this happen? 1959? How could she be
in 1959? Where was Jordan--and the children? Her head
hurt from thinking and she held her hands over her
eyes, as if it would shut the insanity out.
  "What's your name?" Margie asked, and Elle
slowly brought her hands down.
  It was her mother! She'd seen pictures of her
mother when she was young.
  "Your name? Do you remember? It looks like you
hit your head when you fell. Geez, I don't
know what to do. I think I'd better
get help."
  "My name is Elizabeth," Elle said
quickly. "Elizabeth Mackenzie."
  She watched for a sign of recognition. There was
none. Her mother didn't know her!
  Margie Curran gave her a friendly smile.
"I don't know what happened. I was eating my
lunch and I looked up and there you were, lying over
here." She shook her head, as if amazed.
"I'm glad you're okay. Do you want some
Coke? Something to drink?"
  Dumbfounded, Elle could only nod. She
watched her mother get up and walk to a nearby park
bench to retrieve her lunch. She was dressed in
a light cotton shirtwaist dress that almost
matched her hair. A black barrette held the
blond curls off her forehead. Her heels were
high and patent leather, and sank into the soft ground
as she walked. Coming back, Margie knelt
next to her and held out her hand.
  Coca-Cola in a pale green bottle.
Elle hadn't seen that since she was a child. She
watched as Margie took out a lacy handkerchief
from her skirt pocket and wiped the neck of the
bottle and then offered it again.
  "Sorry, but I don't have a paper cup."
  Elle wanted to tell her what they had shared
over the years and that she shouldn't be worried, but she
knew it would only frighten her. She continued to stare
at the young, pretty woman as she sipped the
Coke.
  "Why did this happen? her brain demanded.
Why was she taken to this time? Hadn't she made a
deal with God? Hadn't she? What are you doing
to me? We had a deal! she raged inwardly,
fighting the panic. What was it again? Something about--
  "Do you want to sit with me for a while?"
Margie interrupted her thoughts. "Just till you
get your bearings?"
  Elle stared at the vision next to her. She was
so pretty--her face not yet lined from years of
worry; her eyes bright, intelligent, not showing the
unhappiness that was to be her fate. Elle handed
her back the bottle and tried to rise. Her
body felt sore and her head ached. As she
stood with Margie's help, a wave of dizziness
washed over her and Margie put an arm around her
waist to steady her.
  "Whoa ... be careful. Here. It's only a
few more steps."
  Elle collapsed onto the wooden bench and
Margie sat on the other side, a lunch bag,
a sandwich wrapped in waxed paper, a large
black purse and a radio, separating them.
  Picking up the sandwich, she held out half.
"Would you like some? It's tuna fish. I made it
myself."
  Elle shook her head. "No thanks. You go
ahead." Was it really possible that she was sitting in
a park in Philadelphia, listening to Ray
Charles belt out "What'd I Say" and talking
to her mother at age--what age was she?
  Elle glanced at her, trying to guess.
Nineteen? Twenty? And why was she here in
Philadelphia? She'd said she had always lived
with her parents until she was married. Elle
searched her fingers for a wedding band. There was none.
  "Do you live here in the city?" she asked.
  Chewing her sandwich, Margie shook her head.
She swallowed quickly and said, "No. I just work in
Philly. I'm a legal secretary."
  Her mother was a legal secretary? Why
didn't she ever know that? She knew her mother worked
in an office, but that was it. Elle suddenly
realized her mother never really told her about her
life before she was married. Why was that?
  "What do you do?" Margie asked. "Are you
sure you don't want something to eat?"
  Again, Elle shook her head. "I ... ahh
... I'm a secretary, too," she finally said,
knowing her mother wouldn't have heard of computers yet.
  Margie glanced down to Elle's slacks and
grinned. "Boy, are you lucky. We have a
strict dress code at the law office. When
winter comes I'd love to be able to wear slacks,
but our clientele is mostly Main Line and we
have to dress like we're living in the Middle
Ages. It really bugs me how strict they
are."
  Elle brushed grass off her leg. Her mother
was bugged? Bugged? "Yes, well, my office
is real ... informal," she muttered.
  "Where do you work?"
  Elle looked at her. "Mictronix," she
answered truthfully. Dear God, she was older
than her mother! By a good ten years!
  Margie scowled, concentrating. "Nope.
I've never heard of it. Is it in the city? Do
you live here?"
  Elle shook her head. "I live in
Texas." It was the truth. That's where she wanted
to be--
  "No kidding? You don't sound like you have an
accent."
  Elle tried to gather her thoughts. Lying to her
mother. Even now, in this incredible circumstance, it
could still make her feel guilty. "I'm just
visiting."
  "Hey that's a great ... oh, listen!" She
held out the small transistor radio so Elle
could hear. The sexy voice was telling his listeners
to come to a canteen, an under twenty-one club, tonight
to hear Frankie Avalon sing his latest hit--
"Venus."
  "I'm going," Margie said in an excited
voice.
  Remembering her mother's love of
celebrities, Elle asked, "For Frankie
Avalon?" Her mother ... a groupie?
  Margie shrugged. "Not just for that. This club's
down by the Naval Base. My girl friend,
Natalie, called at the office this morning and
said the guys will be shipping out tomorrow for two months,
so the place will be packed."
  And then it hit her. It all became clear.
Her father was in the Navy when he'd met her mother.
Was it tonight? Did her parents meet tonight? Without
thought, Elle said quickly, "Can I come? Or, are
you meeting someone special?"
  Margie smiled. "I don't have a boyfriend.
Sure. Come. It'll be a gas."
  A gas? This was her mother speaking?
  Margie looked at the thin watch on her
wrist. "I have to get back to work, or I'll be
late. Are you sure you're okay? You look
better. You have some color in your face. Geez,
you should have seen it before. All gray and pasty."
She shuddered and stood up. Crumpling up the
waxed paper, Margie threw it in the brown bag.
She turned off the radio, put it in her
purse, and then hung the purse in the crook of
her arm.
  Elle thought she looked like a very proper young
woman, full of life and purpose, so different
from the one she remembered.
  Almost absently, Margie smoothed down the
full skirt of her dress. "Where will I meet
you? Down at the club?"
  Elle shrugged. "I don't know." In truth,
she was more confused than ever.
  "Listen. I'm going to work late tonight and go right
from there. Why don't you walk me back to the
office and then we'll meet--say, seven?"
  Nodding, Elle rose. "That sounds good." She
was unsteady for the first few steps but it didn't
last. She noticed that Margie slowed her pace
and she wanted to reach out and hug her, to thank her for
showing her mother as she really was, before Fate had
turned her life around. She wanted to beg this
young, vivacious girl not to go tonight, to stay away from
all sailors, and one in particular. But she
knew she couldn't. Margie would think she was
crazy. And the cardinal rule applied ... you
couldn't change the future. You can't tamper with
Fate.
  So tonight she would go, and watch helplessly as her
mother made the biggest mistake of her life.
  "Did you see it?" Margie asked, while
pointing to a movie marquee. "Didn't you just
love it?"
  Elle looked up and saw a billboard showing
Audrey Hepburn in a white habit.
Nun's Story. She remembered watching it
on television late one night when she was at
college. "Yes. It was very good." She tried
to remember the plot.
  Margie sighed. "I was glad she left the
convent. I wish she would have found the doctor,
though. He really loved her."
  Elle grinned at the woman next to her. She
was always a romantic. Looking down the street,
Elle saw a row of movie theaters with
multicolored neon lights advertising Ben
Hur, Rio Bravo, Room at the
Top, Gidget. God, no wonder her mother
had obsessed on movies!
  "Here we are," Margie said, stopping in
front of a large office building. "Seven
o'clock. Right?"
  Elle nodded. "Seven o'clock. I'll be here."
  "Great," Margie answered and gave her a quick
smile. "See you then."
  Elle watched as her mother opened the heavy
glass door and she was filled with a sense of
urgency. What if she never saw her again?
"Margie, wait!"
  Her mother turned around.
  Elle just stared for a few moments, memorizing
her face, her expression of vitality and
innocence. "Thanks," she said slowly.
"Thank you for everything."
  Margie laughed and waved, as if to say it was
nothing.
  Elle's eyes filled with tears as the door
closed and blocked her view.
  But it was everything. Margie Curran had given
her more than she knew.

  It dawned on her as she walked the city that she
had no money. She looked in the window of
Wanamakers at the proper Chanel and
Christian Dior suits saluting the approach
of fall. A block further on Chestnut
Street another store tried to cash in on the warm
September weather by offering an Indian Summer
sale on the new daring bikini, and more sedate
bathing suits with little flared skirts. She walked
into Woolworths and stood before the magazine rack,
soaking in the culture of an innocent era. The more
newsworthy told of Alaska and Hawaii
becoming the 49th and 50th states, that Khrushchev
is expected to tour the U.s. in response
to Vice President Richard Nixon's heated
kitchen debate in Moscow. She read with
fascination that "Lady Day," Billie
Holliday, died in New York City and that before
her death, she was arrested in her bed on a drug
charge. The police even confiscated her
magazines, radio and a box of Whitman's
chocolates. "Lady Chatterly" was still too
hot for America, and D.h. Lawrence's
classic was banned as being too filthy for postal
workers to handle.
  Shaking her head in amazement, Elle saw that
the innocence of this era was about to be shattered as she
read a story of mob violence and tension in Little
Rock, as Negro students registered for the coming
school year. She picked up a small item
at the bottom of the page, quietly stating that
Communist guerrillas had killed two
American soldiers at Bienhoa, South
Vietnam. Filled with sadness, she turned the
page and saw a picture of a healthy, smiling
man in his prime--a young senator from
Massachusetts who had just been nominated as the
Democratic Presidental candidate. Elle
closed the magazine and slowly placed it back in
the rack, wishing with all her heart that she didn't
know this country was going to be torn apart with race
riots, that tens of thousands of young men not
old enough to vote would die in that little Asian
country. And Jack Kennedy would be dead in a
few years. ...
  She looked around her, wondering if she told
someone would it make a difference? Would anyone
believe her? She knew it was useless. No
matter what, you can't change the future. You
can't alter the course of history. She glanced
back to the rack of colorful magazines and saw
that this time, this America, was basking in
tranquility and prosperity--the Yankees were
baseball's dynasty. Hoola hoops and stuffing
phone booths were the craze. Leave It
to Beaver actually seemed to mirror real life,
when, gee whiz, the worst that could happen was that the
Beav might get caught smoking. No one would
listen to her. And could she blame them? It would be the
young people, her mother's age, that would get involved. But
right now they were still grieving over the deaths of Buddy
Holly and Richie Valens, waiting for Elvis
to get out of the army, standing in line to see Rock
Hudson and Doris Day in Pillow Talk,
or trying out Metrical to lose weight or
Breck Shampoo because the ads had the most
artistically beautiful women in the world. No one
would want to hear about civil rights, Southeast
Asia, or a sniper's bullets.
  She was distracted by the cries of a little girl
down the aisle, pleading with her mother for one of the new
Barbie dolls, and Elle shook her head as she
walked away. Through the years that doll, with its
absurd proportions, had done more damage to the
female anatomy than whalebone corsets.
Shrugging, Elle wondered what ever became of her
own Barbie. How she had loved that feminine
rite of passage in the sixties--all the
outfits, dating Ken, dreaming of the time when
plastic would be transformed into living and breathing
boyfriends. It was so long ago ...
  Passing a small mirror, she stopped at the
counter and looked at her reflection. She was a
mess! Her hair was tangled. There was a
smudge of dirt on her cheek, and in a time of
eyeliner and bright lipstick she wore none.
  She looked up and down the aisle. Everyone
seemed busy, even the young girl behind the counter.
It wouldn't be stealing, not really. And she did have a
dance to go to later on ... Making up her mind,
Elle picked up the comb and walked away to find
a sales clerk. She was directed to the
bathroom and, after washing her face, she pulled the
wide-toothed comb through her hair. Looking in the
mirror, she thought of Jordan--what he was
doing, what he was thinking. Would he believe that she
left the Triple Cross, that she ran away?
He couldn't. What about Julie and Cory? She
even thought about Hester. She would give anything just
to see the old woman's face again. To be back
where she belonged.
  Don't think about it, she told herself, washing out
the comb and drying it on the roll of white linen. Just
get through tonight. Catching the eye of a teenager who was
applying even more blue eyeshadow to her lids,
Elle smiled. My God, tonight she was going to a
dance with her mother! She truly had landed in Oz.
  Replacing the comb in its bin, Elle moved
further down the aisle. It was all here.
Lipstick in exotic shades. Eyeliner.
Shadows. Rouge. Checking first to make sure no
one was paying attention, Elle reached out for a tube
of lipstick. She turned it over and read the name.
Angel Fire. A smile appeared at her
lips. It was appropriate. She took the top
off and applied the bright red color. Next, she
moved to the rouge and then the eyeliner and shadow. It
was while she was applying mascara with a tiny brush
that she smelled food and her stomach muscles
tightened in response. God, she was hungry!
  Turning around she spied a lunch counter against the
wall and made her way over to it. She was
salivating as she watched people chewing hamburgers,
sipping Cokes and milkshakes in tall fluted
glasses. She didn't have any money, but
maybe she could get some water. They didn't
charge for water, did they?
  There was one woman behind the counter, looking
frazzled as she tried to serve everyone herself.
Hoping to be friendly, Elle smiled as she rushed
past. The woman ignored her as she dropped a
plate of spaghetti in front of the man seated
next to her. Elle looked longingly at the dish.
  "What can I get'cha?" The voice was
impatient, not at all friendly.
  Swallowing down her hunger, Elle again tried
smiling. "Could I have some water, please?"
  The woman rolled her eyes and walked away.
She had bleached blond hair, too much
makeup, and a pink-laced handkerchief fashioned
into a corsage at her breast. The name Trudi was
stamped on her name tag. She carried the
glass of water in one hand and a plate of french
fries in the other. Dropping off the fries for a
young boy, she slid the water in front of
Elle.
  "Now, do you want to order?" she demanded. "I
got twenty people here waiting."
  Elle was embarrassed, and shook her head.
"No. I can't. But thanks for the water."
  Trudi muttered something before rushing back for her
pickup. Elle watched her, fascinated by the
efficient, if brusque, manner of the woman.
Pickup from the cook. Delivery to the customer.
Ring up receipts at the cash register. Elle
knew she could do it. All she needed was courage.
  The next time Trudi raced in front of her,
Elle called out her name.
  "Yeah? You gonna order now?"
  "Can you use some help?" she asked
hopefully.
  Trudi issued a sarcastic laugh. "Can a
train use tracks?"
  Laughing, Elle nodded. "I can help you for a
couple of hours. I waited tables in
college."
  "Hey, Trudi! What about my chicken
salad?" a large man yelled down the counter.
  "Hold your horses," she yelled back, and
looked at Elle. "You're not kidding me?"
  Elle shook her head.
  "Mary Ellen went home sick and they left
me alone. They don't care if I'm dyin'
back here," Trudi said, looking out to the body
of the store. "I guess I can give you a couple
of dollars if you work until the dinner crowd is
over. And you can eat whatever you want before you
leave."
  "Trudi!" The man was obviously in a
hurry.
  "I'll be there when I get there. If you can't
wait, go across the street to Sun Ray Drugs,
why don't ya?"
  She looked back at Elle, waiting for an
answer to her proposal.
  "I'll do it. Got an apron?"
  She pointed to the end of the lunch counter.
"C'mon back, kiddo. You're hired."



              Chapter 27

  They stood in line at the entrance to the canteen.
"It's a dollar," Margie said, smoothing down
her hair while checking it in a compact mirror.
"Keeps the younger kids out."
  Elle nodded, queuing up. She was nervous.
It seemed silly. She was older than all of
them, from the girls who looked too young to be in
heels to the boys with their crewcuts and baggy
sweaters. Her mother's friend, Natalie, was right about
one thing, though. There were a lot of sailors. They
stood in their white uniforms, smoking cigarettes
and eying every girl that passed.
  "Elle?"
  She looked down at her mother--who was shorter,
younger and prettier than she. God ...
  "I don't mean to pry, or anything. And you
don't have to tell, if you don't want ... but,
isn't that a wedding ring you're wearing?"
  Elle looked down at the thin gold band.
"Yes," she said quietly. "It is."
  Margie stared at her. "You're married?"
  Smiling, Elle nodded.
  "Is he ... like dead, or something?" Margie
looked upset.
  "No, he's--" But in this time he was ...
Elle refused to think about it. "He's away,"
she finally answered.
  "And he doesn't mind if you go to a dance?"
  Shaking her head, Elle said, "I love him,
but I don't think he'd mind tonight."
  Margie's expression showed her surprise.
"Wow. Married! I don't think I'll get
married until I'm at least twenty-five."
  "No?" How Elle wished that were true.
  "There's too much I want to do."
  "Like what?" Elle was really interested, and she
realized what a miracle this was--to meet her
mother as a young, vibrant woman, full of life
and promise. Every daughter who ever fought with her
mother, who thought they were too old and would never understand
them, should be granted this moment and see the truth.
  Margie smiled dreamily. "I want to go
to Paris. I have about six hundred dollars
saved. Hopefully, by this time next year, I'll
be having dinner at the top of the Eiffel Tower."
  Elle didn't know what to say. Margie
Curran would never make the trip.
  "Here we go," Margie pointed out, handing a
man her dollar. The man took the
money and stamped her hand with a red star.
  She turned as Elle held out her money.
"Hey Not a silver dollar! Don't you have
anything else?"
  Elle wanted to get rid of it and keep the
lighter bill, but she shrugged and made the
exchange.
  As they walked into the dance, Margie yelled
over the music, "My boss says they're going
to be worth something one day. Keep the silver
dollar." She pressed it into Elle's palm and
smiled.
  Nodding, Elle looked out to the crowd. Kids
were jitterbugging all over the place. It was hot
and smoke hung in the air like a vaporous cloud.
Obviously, the Surgeon General's warning had
yet to take effect.
  "C'mon," Margie said, and pointed to one
side of the room. "I see Natalie."
  She followed her mother, watching as Margie
walked in front of the young men and sailors who
leaned up against the wall, passing judgments on the
females who crossed their line of vision. Elle
heard a few comments addressed to her mother and she had
the irrational urge to walk up to the jerks and slap
them silly. This was her mother! But Margie ignored
them, happy to be with her friend.
  "Elle, this is Natalie," she said, smiling
at the small dark-haired girl.
  "Hi." Elle thought Natalie was pretty in
an exotic way. Her brown eyes were ringed with
thick lashes and her smile was warm and friendly.
She made the perfect foil to her mother's light
beauty. No wonder the two were attracting
attention.
  A guy, about twenty, came up to her mother and
pulled her onto the dance floor. Elle turned
to watch, fascinated ... she was so full of spirit and
energy. No wonder she loved to look at old
movies and listen to the oldies on the radio. This
must have been the happiest time of her life. Tears
came into Elle's eyes as she stared at her mother.
The fast song ended and her dance partner took her in
his arms and slow-danced to Phil Phillips's
"Sea of Love."
  "Wanna dance?"
  Elle blinked, not sure she'd heard
correctly. She looked to her side and saw a
young man, a good ten years younger than she. He was
waiting expectantly for an answer.
Smiling nervously, she shook her head. "No
thanks."
  "Oh, go on," Natalie urged, cradling the
arm of her own partner.
  The boy waited. He was tall, with red hair
and freckles. Not quite a nerd, but close. And
looked about as nervous as she felt. Sighing in
defeat, she nodded. "Okay. Sure. Let's
dance."
  She spent the next hour and a half trying
to keep tabs on her mother. Why didn't she ever
realize her mom was such a good dancer? It was
ironic to be in her own prime and stand on the
side while her mother was more popular. But she
wanted Margie Curran to enjoy every dance, every
moment--
  And then she saw him.
  He was hard to miss. Dressed in Navy
white, he walked with a swagger. He had the look
of a man that knows he's attractive. He was
alone. A man like him doesn't need friends,
Elle thought. He wants to stand out, to be
noticed. John Mackenzie stood, one hip
thrust out, and put a cigarette to his mouth.
Striking a match, he deeply inhaled and then
looked out to the dance floor, as if assessing
anyone worthy of his attention.
  He doesn't know her yet, Elle thought
quickly. He hasn't even seen her. I can stop
this. No. No you can't. You can't change the
future. He's going to ship out tomorrow, so it has
to be tonight that they meet. Something will happen between them,
some spark of white-hot passion, and you'll be
conceived. Elle searched the dance floor for her
mother. She was laughing in the arms of another man.
And she'll pay for the rest of her life.
  Starting to cry, Elle took a deep breath and
struggled to control her emotions. She tried to think
logically. Maybe he wasn't her father. He
had always denied it, had always thought he'd been
tricked into marriage. But she looked at him,
young and handsome. Her hair was the same color as
his. Her eyes were the same amber brown. He
could be her brother. Though in her heart she knew
the truth. He was her father.
  What would happen if she got her mother out of
here?
  You won't be born--you'll no longer
exist. And if you do this, then nothing else in your
life will exist either. But what had she ever
done that was so important? What will she really
leave behind? Nothing, except a lot of
mistakes.
  Jordan. He wasn't a mistake. He was
everything to her now.
  What will happen to Jordan? And the life she
desperately wanted to return to? Maybe this
was why she was brought to this time. What was the deal again?
She frantically searched her brain for the answer.
Give up something else besides Jordan and the children?
What? Her life? Isn't that asking for the
ultimate sacrifice? And what if it
doesn't work?
  She had little time to reason out the answers to her
questions as she watched her father's face. He showed
interest in someone on the dance floor. Following his
line of vision, she saw he was looking at her
mother.
  Fear clutched her heart. She had seen the
same look in too many men, in too many singles
bars, in her own time. John Mackenzie
didn't want to really know Margie Curran.
He wanted something fast and carnal, something he
wouldn't have to think about after tomorrow.
  And she couldn't let it happen.
  Driven by love, Elle rushed out onto the
dance floor. She pushed couples out of her way
in her haste to reach her mother.
  "Mom ... Margie! Come with me. Quick!"
She reached for her mother's hand.
  Margie pulled back, confused. "What?
What's wrong? Are you sick again?"
  Elle nodded. "That's it! I'm sick. I
need you."
  Margie looked to her partner and shrugged. "I'm
sorry. Maybe we can dance later."
  The young man nodded and watched as they walked
away.
  "Do you want to go into the bathroom?" Margie
asked.
  Elle shook her head. "I ... I need
fresh air. All this smoke."
  When they stood on the sidewalk, Elle's
heart was still pounding with fear. She had to get her mother
away from here.
  "Are you okay now?"
  Elle shook her head. "Maybe we can go and
get coffee, or something. I have some money," she
added quickly.
  "I can't leave," Margie
protested. "What about Natalie?"
  "She'll be fine. She was dancing with the same
guy all night. He'll bring her home."
  "But I haven't even seen Frankie
Avalon yet. He's supposed to be here tonight."
  Desperate, Elle blurted out, "What's the
big deal? He gets married and has like a dozen
kids, or something."
  Margie stared at her. "What?"
  Shaking her head, Elle said, "look, I'm
sorry."
  They both stopped speaking as a large black
Cadillac, with fins Jaws would have envied,
pulled up to the sidewalk. The door opened, and
Elle watched as her mother nearly swooned at the
sight of a skinny man emerging from the dark
interior.
  "Oh my God--it's him!"
  Elle wasn't all that impressed. It
wasn't like he was Elvis Presley, or one
of the Beatles. Even she would have been excited.
But he was sort of cute, and he had a great
smile, even if his hair was styled in a
pompadour.
  "C'mon," she urged. "Let's go meet
him."
  "I can't!" Margie protested.
  Elle turned to look at her in astonishment.
"Didn't you just say you couldn't leave because you
wanted to see him? Well, there he is, and he's
going to be gone in a couple of seconds if we
don't move."
  She took her mother's wrist and nearly pulled
her up to the man. "Hi, Frankie," Elle
said, as if she did this sort of thing all the time.
"This is Margie Curran. Can you give her an
autograph?"
  The young singer flashed them a brilliant
smile. "Sure." He reached inside the
jacket of his black sports coat and brought out
a pen. People were starting to gather around them when he said,
"Got any paper?"
  Elle looked at Margie, who was staring at
Frankie as if she'd just died, gone to heaven, and
was gazing on the face of a deity. Realizing her
mother wasn't going to be of any help, Elle again
reached down and took Margie's wrist. "Just
sign her hand. She'll be thrilled."
  "Hey, cool." The singer laughed and wrote his
name. He looked up at Elle. "You
want one, too?"
  Elle grinned. "Sure. Why not?" She let
her mother admire her hand as she held out her own.
  "I got to go," he said after signing his
autograph to her skin.
  He was led away by several men who pushed back
those who'd gathered on the street.
Impulsively, Elle called out, "Hey,
Frankie!"
  He glanced back.
  "Give my regards to Annette," she
shouted, laughing at his confused expression. He
shook his head, as if he didn't hear and was
swallowed up in the crowd of admirers.
  "Nice guy," Elle muttered, looking
heavenward. It was no accident that he had appeared
just at the right time.
  "He's wonderful!" Margie gushed, holding
her hand out in front of her, as though it were something
sacred. "Oh, Elle, how can I thank you?
Frankie Avalon wrote on my hand! And you
told him my name!"
  Elle was pleased for her, but she still wanted
to get Margie away from this place. "Do you want
to know what you can do for me?"
  "Yes. Anything. Just tell me."
  Elle took a deep breath. "Go home."
  Confused, Margie stared at her. "Go home?"
  "Get on a bus, or train, or however you
get back from the city. Just do it now. Okay?"
  "Okay," Margie said, still looking confused.
"I only came tonight to see him, so I might as
well go. I take the E bus. Oh, Elle,
nobody's going to believe this! I wish
Natalie could see it."
  "I'll walk you to the bus," Elle said
firmly, and took her mother's elbow. "Let's
go."
  They stood on the street corner, waiting for the
bus. There was so much Elle wanted to say to her.
She wanted to tell her that she loved her with all
her heart, to thank her for the love she had always
shown, but she knew she couldn't. Instead, she
listened as her mother went on about Frankie
Avalon. Elle couldn't stop staring at her and,
when the bus came, she pulled her mother into her
arms. Hugging her tight, Elle caught the scent
of Evening in Paris and her eyes filled with
tears.
  "I'll never wash my hand," Margie
whispered into her ear and giggled.
  Elle sniffled and laughed, as Margie pulled
away from her.
  "Are you going to be here tomorrow?" she asked when the
doors to the bus opened.
  Elle shrugged. "I don't know."
  "Well, if you are, maybe I'll see you in
the park tomorrow. You can give me your address and we
can write each other. Okay?"
  Nodding, Elle bit her bottom lip to keep
from crying as her mother walked up the steps.
  She turned before paying her fare. "Thanks for
everything, Elle. I'm so glad we met."
  The tears fell down her cheeks freely.
She couldn't stop them. "Me, too, Margie.
Me, too ..."
  The doors closed and Elle followed her
mother's image as she found a seat. Margie held
up her hand to show off the autograph and laughed as
she waved goodbye.
  Brushing away tears, Elle waved back.
"Go to Paris," she shouted as the bus pulled out.
"Promise me, you'll go!"
  She didn't know if her mother ever heard her, but
she stared after the bus, wishing with all her heart that
she did.
  Bringing her hand up to her mouth, she tried to stop
her lips from trembling.
  Goodbye, Mom ...
  She had nowhere to go. It was dark and late, and
she didn't want to roam the city at night.
What's going to happen to me? She looked down
at her hands. One had the scrawled signature
of a teen idol, the other a stamped star. She could
go back to the dance and then decide. At least there
were people, and she wouldn't be alone.
  She walked back into the canteen to the pounding
rhythm of Little Richard's "Good Golly Miss
Molly." Everyone was dancing and the wooden floor
vibrated with the pounding of their feet. Her head ached
from the loud music, and her body was trembling with
emotion. Her mother ... there was so much she had
wanted to tell her. Reaching into her pocket, she
felt the silver dollar and pressed it into her
palm. It was warm and comforting.
  She saw him. Through the couples swinging each
other, he caught her eye. They stared across the
room for endless seconds and Elle's heart beat
wildly inside her chest. The pores on her
skin seemed to open and sweat broke out
over her body. He was coming to her, weaving his way
across the dance floor. Her father. He was walking
straight up to her! Fear took hold and she
tried to move, but her legs refused to help.
Tremors started in her hands and worked their way up
her arms, until her entire body was shaking.
She felt dizzy with panic. The music was
drowned out with a loud buzzing in her ears, and her
vision started to darken, as if she were seeing him through
a shadowy tunnel. How could he have denied her
all those years? How--
  Elle's eyes opened wide with fear as she
realized she was going to fall. She reached out,
desperate to connect with someone, something, anything,
to keep her anchored.
  But the darkness enveloped her, and the pain in her
head was unbearable as she fell. She opened her
mouth to cry out, yet no sound emerged. There was
only darkness and pain and the eerie sensation of someone
calling out to her ...
  "Elizabeth! Can you hear me?"
  Was she dying? Was this it? She was paying the
price for preventing her own conception. She
desperately tried to hold the image of
Jordan in her brain, to see him and the children, but it
was impossible. Was she supposed to follow the
swirling lights in her mind's eye? But the
pain-- Dear God, the pain!
  "Open your eyes, Elizabeth. I know you can
hear me."
  She fought the heaviness at her lids,
desperate to see him.
  It was Jordan's voice!
  Jordan!
  She forced her eyes open and stared at the
beautiful face in front of her.
  "Jordan?" Her voice was raw with emotion and
disbelief.
  "I'm here," he said gently, cradling her
head against his chest. "Are you all right?"
  She looked up to the sky. "Where am I?
What ... what happened?" Dear God, her
head was pounding, and she felt nausea rise in her
throat.
  Closing her eyes, she heard him say, "You
were riding with Cory and your horse threw you. We
brought the wagon to take you home, darling. You're
going to be fine."
  He kissed her temple and Elle started
to cry. Was it all a dream? Her mother
... did any of it happen?
  "Don't cry, Miss Elle."
  She opened her eyes and saw Cory kneeling
beside her.
  "You talked!" she muttered in astonishment.
  The young boy grinned sheepishly.
  "He came back and got us. We're all
real proud of him." Jordan reached out and tousled
Cory's blond hair. "C'mon, let's get
you in the wagon. There's nothing broken, is there?"
  She tested her limbs. Her entire body
felt beaten and bruised, but she shook her head.
"I don't think so."
  "Okay. Hold on to me." He lifted her
up and she clung to him, never wanting to let go.
She inhaled the scent of him, felt the texture
of his shirt, and pressed her head closer to his
chest. She was with him. That's all that mattered.
  She saw Kyle and Traver standing by the wagon
and almost laughed at their forlorn expressions.
Dear God ... wasn't this how it had all
started? If it wasn't for their mistake, she
never would have met Jordan, or the children.
  "Thanks, guys ... for everything," she
murmured, meaning every word.
  The two men stared at her, clearly
embarrassed, until Traver elbowed Kyle in
the ribs. "Don't just stand there, catchin' flies
with your mouth. Go get the Cap'n's horse.
I'll be takin' Miss Elizabeth home."
  Home. The word never sounded so sweet.
  Jordan deposited her in the back of the
wagon and got in beside her. He took her in his
arms and held her tightly. As the wagon began
to move, he lowered his head and whispered in her ear,
"I was so worried. I don't know what I would
have done if anything happened to you. I love you,
Lizzie."
  She closed her eyes and snuggled against him.
"Oh, Jordan, you'll never know how much I
love you. And I promise I'll be a good
wife. I'll even do the obey part and never talk
about being from the future. It's all over. I
want to stay here with you forever."
  "Ahh, Elizabeth?"
  She heard the tone in his voice and looked up
at him. He had a funny expression on his
face, kind of scared and yet awed.
  "What is it? What's wrong?"
  Reaching into his shirt pocket, he
held out his hand. "I found it on the ground, next
to you."
  Cradled in his palm was a shiny silver dollar
that caught the last rays of the fading sun.
  Her hand shook as she ran her fingertip over the
raised image of Lady Liberty, the year
1921, and the words, "In God We Trust."
The scrawled ink signature on her hand was
smudged and stained the skin.
  Oh, Mom ... She knew Margie
Curran would go to Paris after all. Somehow,
Elle had broken the circle of unhappiness.
  "Elizabeth? It was minted in 1921. How can
that be?" he asked in amazement. "I mean--
look at it!" His voice was almost reverent.
  Filled with joy, she threw back her head and
laughed. "Maybe now you'll believe me. Oh,
Jordan, wait until you hear where I've
been!"
  Looking out across the vast meadow, Elle saw
Peachtree Point in the distance, so beautiful, so
welcoming, and her throat tightened with raw
emotion. It all became clear to her. The only
reason she was alive anywhere, in any time, was because
of the love she had found here in the past. Letting the
tears fall freely, she pressed her face
against Jordan's chest and smiled as she listened
to the steady, sure beat of his heart. It wasn't
the past, she corrected herself.
  It was now her future.
  "We're almost home," he said gently,
interrupting her thoughts.
  Looking up at him, she breathed a sigh of
contentment and shook her head. "No, Jordan,"
she said slowly, sincerely. "I'm already there."

  She was finally alone. She had waited
patiently for everyone to leave, and if truth be
told, she couldn't seem to stop touching the children,
nor staring into Hester's wonderfully maternal
face. She let them fuss over her--feed her,
read to her, prop mountains of pillows behind her
back. Anything they wanted to do was fine. She had
all the time in the world.
  But now ... now she was alone. Jordan had
told them she must rest and regain her strength. And
she intended to do just that. But first, first there was something
far more important.
  Ignoring her aching muscles, Elle pulled
herself up from the bed and walked over to her
dresser. Lying flat against the crocheted doily
was the silver hand mirror.
  Even though her heart told her one thing, she
needed this reassurance that Margie Curran
hadn't been defeated by life. Elle's hand was
shaking as she picked up the mirror and turned it
over. She stared into the broken glass, seeing
nothing but her own reflection. She concentrated,
willing an image to take the place of her own,
yet the effort only produced a dull headache.
Disappointed, Elle turned back to the bed. She
just wished she could have seen something, some sign.
  The pillow behind her head was soft and comforting and she
closed her eyes. Jordan was right. She should
sleep. There was so much to be done. Now that she
knew she was staying, she intended to really get
involved, to use her knowledge of the future. She would
study the newspapers, try to remember her
history--
  Suddenly the dancing lights behind her lids
took shape and form. It took only a few
moments to see a face. The face of an older
woman. In her fifties. Graying hair,
stylishly cut. Impeccable makeup, light,
yet enhancing the natural beauty. And she was
smiling. Happiness radiated from her eyes and the
soft line of her mouth.
  Elle caught her breath when she recognized
the likeness. It was her mother! And she was
happy! Grateful, so very grateful, Elle
started to cry, yet the tears gently washed away
the vision. Moaning in disappointment, she tried
to recapture the image but it was gone.
  It had been enough, though. She had seen enough to know
that Margie Curran had been given another chance
at happiness.
  And so had she. This time it wouldn't be wasted.
Closing her eyes against the tears, Elle
whispered a sincere, fervent prayer.
  "Thank you ..."
  She knew it was heard.

  Nine months later, almost to the day, another
miracle occurred. Jared Mackenzie
McCabe came into this world, bringing with him the
promise of the future. His father's gift to his
mother was five hundred shares of stock in the newly
formed Bell Telephone Company of Boston,
Massachusetts.
                Afterword

  Every child comes into this world, into this time, with the message
that God is not yet discouraged by man.
    Anon.

               THE END