PROLOGUE
Blood seeped warm and slippery through Nathan McGraw’s fingers. He removed his hand from his side, only to have the burning sensation intensify. Without looking—He wouldn’t look at it, couldn’t look—he put his hand back.
Panic quickened his breath. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not a month short of his two-year term. If he were destined to take a hit, it was to be to an extremity. He could live without an arm or even a leg. But a gut shot…
Black powder smoke was thick and suffocating even under the sanctity of the forest. He stumbled toward a fungus-blanketed pine and sunk to the base of it. He cried out as the burning exploded into the worst pain yet.
If he didn’t keep quiet, they’d come finish him off.
He took a deep breath only to be racked with an agony too intense for screams. He took several quick shallow breaths and closed his eyes. If the caliber was small, he would be all right. Someone would find him. Henry, most likely.
It hurt to breathe.
An image of the pond behind Ma’s cabin filled his mind. He’d once swam out too far, and catching his breath had been almost impossible. How old had he been? Seven? John had pulled him up just before he went under for the last time. John had carried him home, and Ma put a poultice on his chest.
So thirsty.
John had been dead against his enlisting. Ma had been worried sick about it. And Jane…Jane said she’d wait for him.
The burning wouldn’t stop. It hurt. Bad.
His pulse beat wildly at the side of his throat. He wiggled his fingers against his wound. He felt blood soaking the side of his breeches, all the way to his hip now.
He had never thought about death. It was an improbability far into the future. It was for old men with no plans left. He never—
He coughed twice and winced.
Home.
It was his last living thought.
CHAPTER ONE
May 2005
Sarah Price whipped her 1997 Chevy Blazer into the last available parking spot. She shut off her ignition, threw her keys into her bag, and rummaged through the mountain of paperwork, clothing, and fast food wrappers on the passenger side.
Panic started to rear its ugly head. She’d forgotten them. Stupid, stupid, stupid! She didn’t have time to go back. She had the meeting with the lawyer in half an hour, and she still had to pick up the banner, stop at the UPS office, drop more paperwork off at the accountant.
She practically pole-vaulted herself over the seat, rummaged through the pile of clothing, CDs, and other junk she still hadn’t put away. The flyers were on the floor under a stack of magazines.
She breathed a sigh of relief. Remembering the breathing exercises from her stress reduction class, she exhaled slowly. In with the good energy. Out with the stress.
Things would get better. It was only a matter of time.
Tugging her shirt down, she grabbed the stack of flyers and stepped out of the vehicle.
Lake George was crowded with tourists despite Memorial Day still being two weeks away. The more people the better, she told herself. More business for her bookstore.
She slammed the door of her Blazer. When it didn’t latch, she gave it a hard body slam, which did the trick. She made a mental note to get that fixed. When money wasn’t so tight.
To avoid the meters, she’d parked in the resort parking lot, which was also part of Fort William Henry, her destination. As a child, she had visited the fort with her parents. Her father had given her a history lesson about a war fought here. She hadn’t any interest in history then, or now for that matter. Fort William was still the same after thirty years, and it still didn’t really seem to belong here. Dark and dreary, it was a reminder of a tragic past amidst a resort town of carefree vacationers.
She hurried past the blockhouse and soda machines, down the long blacktopped path that led to the fort, entered it’s dungeon-like entranceway, which opened to the large gift shop. It was a sea of knickknacks and gewgaws, but surprisingly, she saw no one working there.
“Hello?”
No one was even attending the cash register. She found a door marked “Employees Only” and knocked. No answer.
Maybe she should have called. She’d forgotten to check what time the fort opened. She checked her watch. Ten o’clock. If she missed the appointment with the lawyer the crooked bastard would probably charge her anyway.
She turned back toward the corridor that led outside. The stranger came at her too fast for her to even think about dodging him. She saw him round the corner and protectively raised her hands. He crashed into her with the force of a Mac truck.
She fell back, landed hard on her backside. “Oh!”
At first, she thought the man was going to continue on without acknowledging her. Then, as if agitated that she’d slowed him, he stopped, bent over her.
“Who are you?”
There was something compelling about his gaze. His eyes were pale; a color she’d never—They looked almost tan or transparent. What in the world—
She sat up then quickly stood. “Sarah.” She brushed the dust from her tan capris. “Sarah Price.”
“I don’t know you,” his tone was irritated.
The man was well over six feet, skinny, almost too thin for his height. His pants were made of dark, heavy wool. His shirt was some sort of worn, dirty linen. His vest and jacket, made of the same material as his pants, were adorned with large pewter buttons. She assumed he must be one of the fort’s reenactors. She wondered how he could stand such a costume in this heat.
“My regiment—Why am I back here? I was to go to Fort Edward.” His expression was confused.
He ran a hand through his hair. Dirty brown, it fell an inch or so below his collar. “Were you with our party? W-where is my regiment?”
The expression on his face turned from distraught to one of horror. Anywhere else, she would have ran. The fort hired actors to entertain tourists. It was his job to keep in character with the period. Still, it wouldn’t have killed him to apologize for knocking her down.
He stepped toward her. She backed up.
She looked down and remembered her flyers, which were now scattered all over the floor. She bent down and began picking them up. Her PDA, which the store clerk had all put guaranteed would keep her organized, was lying in two pieces.
He didn’t even bother to help her pick anything up.
“This thing cost me over two hundred bucks.”
“I enlisted with the 35th Regiment.” He paced next to her. “I was on guard duty under Captain Saltonftall and Private Hardy when the attack began.”
Sarah glanced at his feet. His shoes were worn and cracked. The buckle on his left shoe was large, like something a pilgrim would wear. The buckle on his right shoe was missing.
She stood up. “Is your supervisor around?”
His breathing was quick. “I told you, Captain—”
“Give it a rest, will you?” Sarah shoved the flyers at him. “Here. I don’t have time for this. I came here to speak to the person in charge. I’m opening a bookstore downtown. Well, it’s more than a bookstore…coffee, internet access, the whole thing. I thought perhaps we make an arrangement. The fort sends visitors to my store, I offer a discount. That sort of thing. Since you’re the only person here—”
“Colonel Monro surrendered to French forces. Montcalm promised us safe passage to Fort Edward. I was hoping—” He frantically looked from side to side, as if searching for someone. “Henry was shot.”
His voice was so panicked that if she didn’t know better, she would have thought he was serious. She stared at him. Never in her life had she seen eyes so troubled. If he wasn’t acting, she’d almost think he was deranged.
“I have to find Henry.”
He gripped her wrist.
So cold.
Not just cold. It was as if his hand had just come out of a freezer.
She lurched back.
“Miss?”
He reached for her, but she scrambled out of grip. An overwhelming urge to run overcame her. Not just a panic attack. Not this time. This time it was—
She had no idea what it was.
But she had to get out of here.
Now.
* * *
Nathan McGraw paced the interior courtyard of Fort William Henry. His heart hammered wildly in his chest as he tried to collect his bearings.
Fort William was abandoned. He had no idea where everyone was. Or why he was here.
For the hundredth time, he went over what had happened. Fort William had surrendered. It’s inhabitants had been taken under French guard. He distinctly remembered Montcalm’s men escorting everyone from Fort William to Fort Edward, more than fourteen miles north. They hadn’t traveled a day’s pace when they’d been ambushed. There had been gunfire. He must have passed out, and someone must have brought him back here, to Fort William. He couldn’t remember waking up. He’d just appeared in the courtyard, it seemed. If someone had brought him back, why had they left him here? Why hadn’t they put him in his sleeping quarters?
The woman hadn’t helped any. Crazy was what she was. He’d thought about following her but decided she wasn’t much help anyway. She seemed to have no idea what had happened. Maybe she’d been hit in the head during the attack.
What was her name again?
He hurried across the courtyard and climbed the stairs—there used to be a rough hewn ladder here—and stood on the northeast bastion. Canons cluttered the top of the fortress. He ran his hand over one of them. Touching the sun-warmed steel brought back a flood of memories. He recalled the blast of exploding mortars and gunfire. The sickening screams of the wounded and dying. The entire northwest bastion had been destroyed by French artillery. The whole gun crew, all but Henry, had been slaughtered.
He and Henry, both twenty-three and both from White Creek, had bonded almost instantly. They’d survived the six day attack on Fort William together, had dodged the onslaught of French and Indian forces, had even lived through the smallpox which had almost wiped out their post. Together they were lucky. And luck like that wasn’t for nothing.
He hurriedly inspected the other cannons and found all just as weathered as the first. These cannons weren’t more than a few years old. Now they were pitted with rust. The barrels were clogged with spider webs and debris.
He rushed toward the northwest bastion and abruptly stopped. This section of the fortress was in perfect condition, as if war had never come to it. In fact, the entire fort looked as if it had never been in battle.
Removing his hat, he swatted a cloud of blackflies. He ran his hand through his perspiration-soaked hair and looked out toward the horizon. The morning was ablaze with sun. The last time he’d seen the Lake of the Sacrament, she’d been lit up with French gunboat blasts and cannon fire. Now she was as calm as glass. People were scattered like ants. They swam in the water, walked along the shore and beneath the fortress wall that he stood upon.
Three ships, larger than any he’d ever seen, were docked along the shore. Steam bellowed from their stacks as crowds of people boarded. Other boats of various sizes cluttered the shore. There were buildings everywhere. And carriages of every size, shape, and color. They were moving, but no horses pulled them.
What the hell happened?
Tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood up. This was Fort William. This had been his post, his home, for over two years. It was the same, but it was different. It was as if the fortress had been moved and placed in another world.
He thought again of the woman. Sarah. What had she said? Dammit, he couldn’t think.
He looked down at his fist where he still clutched the papers she’d given him. She’d given him instructions with these documents, but right now they didn’t matter. He stared at the colorful pages. A drawing of a worm with spectacles appeared on the border. Books lined the top of the page.
Grand— Grand something. He’d never learned only a few of his letters. Book… Something about books. More words he couldn’t make out. Sarah Price.
He suddenly wondered why the woman had been wearing breeches. He looked out at the sea of people below and saw other women wearing similar attire. Some wore breeches so high they showed their thighs. No one seemed to care how improper it was. They just went about their business as if baring oneself to all public were the most natural thing in the world. Was Sarah Price a harlot? If so, were all these women as well?
Where the hell was he?
Henry would know what was going on. Clutching the papers, he ran to every part of the fort again but saw no sign of him. Nathan was exiting the furthest redoubt when he met two soldiers in full Crown uniform. He saluted them, but they looked on ahead as if they hadn’t even seen him.
He followed them to the officer’s quarters. He knew it was wrong to enter without invitation, but at the moment, he didn’t care. “Captain, Lieutenant, I wish to speak with either of you.”
They didn’t turn around.
Panic didn’t stop. Nathan moved in front of them.
“So what are you doing tomorrow?” The tall one in Captain uniform asked.
The Lieutenant removed his jacket and placed it in some sort of metal box that
was fastened to the wall. “I’m taking Lacey out.”
“That’s the third time this week.”
Nathan cleared his throat. “Captain, I wish to speak with you at once.”
“Maybe this time I’ll get lucky.” The Lieutenant looked right through him. He
laughed with the Captain.
Nathan stepped directly into the officers’ path, but they stepped past him as if he
weren’t even there. Boldly, Nathan gripped the Captain’s shoulder.
The man didn’t even flinch. They went on talking about some woman named Lacey and walked away.
Nathan felt himself break into a cold sweat. His mind struggled to stay sane. He didn’t know where he was, and no one here could see him. He had to get out of here, but where would he go?
He looked down at the papers in his hand. Sarah Price.
She hadn’t ignored him.
He had to find her. Even if she were crazy, she could give him some answers. She had to.
CHAPTER TWO
Sarah Price pounded the last nail into the bookshelf and stepped back to examine her work. The shelves were simple, do-it-yourself kits she'd purchased online. She'd bought twelve. They had cost her a small fortune, but the white oak contrasted nicely against the rough brick walls. On three walls, she'd ripped the lathe and plaster away. The fourth wall, behind the cash counter, she'd painted dark purple. She'd painted the pipes overhead a light lavender. She'd also had the floors refinished. Already, the place bore an earthy, inspiring feel to it. An "artsy-fartsy" feel as Art would have said.
She studied the 800 square foot space. Her “Internet Corner” was set up with three computers, used but still in working condition. More than a dozen boxes of books were still waiting to be placed on shelves. The cappuccino machine still needed to be set up. She had three more table kits to put together, and she still needed to purchase drapes or blinds, she wasn't sure which, for the front door and the two storefront windows. The cash register was due to arrive tomorrow. There was a small apartment upstairs with one bedroom and bath. It would need work to make it livable, but right now she didn't have time. The Bookworm would open in a week's time. She needed to focus on that. Come winter when business was slow, she'd have plenty of time to fix up her living space.
Pressure knotted at the base of her neck. She’d need a miracle to pull this off alone. Mom had been against the whole thing, and certainly Art would not have approved. In fact, when she told him she was leaving Syracuse for this venture, he'd l
aughed. He'd said she couldn't make a living here. The bastard had even bet his brother money that she’d be out of business within a year. Art was always best telling someone what they couldn't do, how they would fail. It was the one thing she could always count on him for.
The stranger at the fort suddenly came to mind. Speaking of rude men. To say he was weirdest individual she'd ever met was an understatement. She supposed some of those reenactment people were a bit eccentric. They'd have to be to spend so much time and money doing things like that.
Still, there was something about him. Something besides his arrogance. She couldn’t put her finger on just what it was.
She was just about to go upstairs for her scissors when the phone rang, making her jump.
“Hello?"
“Sarah, what's going on?”
“Hi, Mom.”
“You haven't called,” her tone was sharp.
“I'm sorry. Things just got hectic.”
“You're too busy to call your mother?”
She was right. She should have called. But it would have been the same: questions, questions...Sarah paused, listened for her mother's steady breathing to confirm that she was indeed still waiting for an answer.
“I just had the phone installed,” she lied, then reconsidered. Mom always found out the truth. She had no idea how, but she always did. “There were complications with it.”
“Who has complications with a phone? Why don’t you have a cell phone? Would it even work up there? You should have never moved to that godforsaken place.”
“It's not godforsaken, Mom.” She found it best to change the subject. “How's Uncle Stan?”
“Well...speaking of phones, I had to put a block on it. I'm calling you from my cell.”
“NASA again?”
“Uh-huh.” Long sigh. “Over $150 this time. I love him. I do, but sometimes...”
“I know you do, Mom.” Sarah couldn't help but smile. Uncle Stan, Mother's younger brother of more than twenty years, had never been right. There was no explanation given at the time, but Mother had always been the one to take care of him. It was only natural that he live with her when Grandma died. Some people even thought Stan was Mother's son.
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