Another Dawn

by Deb Stover

  "I feel a little woozy, but I'm okay." Sofie watched Mrs. Fleming place the tray on the bureau. When the older woman turned around, she saw a frown crease her brow. "Is something wrong? More smallpox?"

  "No, not that, thank the Lord. Roman–Dr. Wilson–thinks we may be near the end of this. I pray he's right." Mrs. Fleming gave a weak smile and took a few steps toward the bed, then paused.

  Though Sofie was relieved to hear there were no more cases of smallpox, she knew there was more the woman wasn't saying. "What is it, Mrs. Fleming? What's wrong?"

  "Well, it's just..."

  "I can tell something's wrong." Sofie rose and waited for an explanation. Had she bumbled someone's care so badly they'd died? Please, not that. "What?"

  "I know you don't remember why you were with Father Salazar when you came here, but..." Mrs. Fleming sighed, then thrust her hands outward in a gesture of helplessness. "I guess there's nothing to do but just say it."

  "All right." Sofie's sense of dread increased with each beat of her heart. "I'm listening."

  "Late last night, I saw Father Salazar running out of your room...."

  Chapter 8

  At the town's insistence, Luke moved into the vacant parsonage. More guilt, yes, but as long as he was playing religious leader, he might as well enjoy the perk of having a bed. At least now he could finally bathe regularly–six more days a week than Zeke thought necessary.

  Thanks to Mrs. Fleming's donation of her late husband's wardrobe, Luke now had clean clothes, too. Pure luxury at this point.

  However, despite his return to daily grooming, he hadn't attempted to shave yet. Not only would he have to use an ominous-looking straight razor, but his skin wasn't exactly in prime condition.

  He looked like a molting bird or a snake shedding its skin. It had started gradually, less than a week after his date with the electric chair. A few days later, he'd been a hideous sight, with dead peeling skin and stubble growing back on his face, scalp, and other areas he couldn't even scratch in polite company.

  Now, weeks later, he looked like a displaced lifeguard at summer's end. Well, he was definitely displaced and it was September–two out of three–though he was no longer the color of a boiled lobster.

  Mrs. Fleming had laundered and returned Father Salazar's robe and collar, despite Luke's insistence that they were beyond repair and their return was unnecessary. Well, he'd tried... But now he only wore the robe and collar for funerals, which had, thankfully, grown far less frequent.

  Dr. Wilson had announced that if they made it until today with no new cases of smallpox, he would declare the epidemic officially at an end and lift the quarantine. Thank God.

  Luke looked at himself in the warped mirror and stroked his scruffy chin. Weeks' growth of beard mingled with dead flakes of skin. "This mess will keep babes from falling at my feet, priest or no prist," he muttered.

  Even Sofie?

  He closed his eyes, remembering that night in her room, when she'd performed a pseudo-tonsillectomy on him in her laudanum-induced state. Fire flashed to his groin, his face and his gut.

  In that order.

  Did she remember? Though he couldn't be certain, he had to wonder why she'd avoided him since. Or had she remembered much more than merely a stolen kiss?

  Like who he was and where–when–they were from?

  Opening his eyes, he leaned on the dresser with the heels of both hands. At least she hadn't experienced any more fainting spells, and other than a scar he hoped would fade over time, she appeared fully recovered from her injury. Except for her amnesia...

  But he couldn't be sure without talking to her. Drawing a deep breath, he made his decision and reached for the late Reverend Bodine's straight razor and strap.

  He would accomplish three things today. Shave his fuzzy, peeling mug without slitting his throat, talk to Sofie and determine whether or not she'd regained her memory, and make a decision about his future. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, number three would be more than a little dependent on the results of number two.

  It wouldn't be easy, but he had to get on with his life. He couldn't stay in Redemption pretending to be a priest forever. Sooner or later, someone was bound to notice Father Salazar's shortcomings as a priest–not to mention his frequent hard-on–and see him for the fraud he truly was. Then Luke's fresh start would be tarnished big time.

  Hell, playing priest was probably illegal on several levels, and Luke Nolan wasn't going back to jail in any century. As soon as he made sure Sofie would be all right, he was out of here. Anyone from Redemption searching for Father Salazar later would never find Luke.

  Unless Sofie told them his real name.

  He swallowed hard and lathered his face and neck, then clutched the handle of the sharpened blade with trembling fingers. Whether she wanted to see him or not, one way or another, he would talk to her today. That was the only way to find out how much she might have remembered.

  He'd considered changing his name after leaving Redemption. In fact, it might save a lot of confusion later on, when future generations of the Nolan family traced their family tree. But what about his pride? Dammit, couldn't he keep his name, his dignity, and his pride in this new life?

  He winced as he scraped the razor across his tender skin. Though he hadn't felt any pain from his near-electrocution for over a week, other than itching like mad, shaving would take a fair amount of dead skin along with his whiskers.

  "Ouch." And a little O positive blood, too. He grabbed a handkerchief and pressed it to his chin. After a few moments, he resumed shaving, nicking himself only twice more before he called his task a success.

  "There." After wiping the remaining lather from his face, he leaned closer to examine his handiwork. "Not bad, Nolan." A definite improvement, if he did say so himself. Right now, his hair looked like an incredibly short spike any punk would've envied, but eventually the Nolan curls would kick in and take care of that problem.

  And his disposition was infinitely better. He smiled, rubbing mineral oil on his face and neck. It helped settle the flakes somewhat, and, thankfully, it didn't smell like the bear grease Ab had offered.

  Amazing what feeling safe and free could do for a guy's mood. Well, almost safe. Would he ever completely lose that nagging feeling that someone was still after him? That at any moment he could be swept back to his own time and an electric chair with his name on it?

  There'd been several other people in that execution chamber, yet only he and Sofie had come through alive. His heart trounced against his ribs. He'd never forget finding Father Salazar's body. Luke touched the crucifix he'd continued to wear even when not in character, so to speak.

  But he hadn't actually seen the others. In retrospect, if he'd realized running for his life hadn't been necessary, he should've stayed and buried the dead.

  Buried Warden Graham?

  A shudder rippled through Luke; he wiped his hands on a rag and cleared his throat. After all this time, he wasn't about to go back to that mountain–assuming he could find it at all. The bodies would be decomposing by now. The execution chamber had become their tomb.

  A time traveling tomb.

  No, he couldn't go back there. Forget it, Nolan. Those explosions hadn't been his fault, nor were the deaths of those who'd gathered for his execution.

  Justice? No. He couldn't wish that on anyone, including the warden.

  "Well, maybe..." He put on the hat Mrs. Fleming had insisted he wear to prevent another sunburn and walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. "Nah, live and let live." Easy enough for him to say now. Sighing, he opened the door and stepped into the crisp autumn air.

  Immediately, he zeroed in on the schoolhouse. Sofie was in there, toiling over the sick, and behaving like a proper Victorian lady. Being a twentieth-century doctor, she was undoubtedly a liberated woman, who'd be shocked by her own behavior once she–

  No, she can't remember. She won't remember.

  Luke rubbed his temples, trying to bani
sh that damned guilt. Again. Sofie had a right to her life and to her past. But at what price to him?

  He had to stop treating her amnesia as if it was his fault. It wasn't. Furthermore, he had no power over whether or not she ever remembered anything at all. Still, couldn't he help her by telling her all he knew? Would knowing she was from another century trigger other memories, or maybe help her understand why she was different from the other women here in Redemption?

  Get real. Anyone who hadn't experienced time travel firsthand–or didn't remember experiencing it–couldn't possibly believe his story. Strike that idea. He had to keep what he knew to himself and see what she remembered on her own.

  If only he could forget...

  No bump on the head could erase the pain and injustice he'd suffered. Of that he was certain. He'd never forget, no matter what.

  Concentrate, Nolan. Right now, he needed to know if she'd remembered anything more.

  "Ready or not, Sofie..."

  "Mother says you have a brand like a steer on your, uh..." Dora ducked her chin and blushed.

  Sighing, Sofie straightened from folding the last of the boiled linens. Only two patients remained in the schoolhouse–the burned stranger and Jenny, who'd been more helper than patient for weeks. In fact, she'd taken it upon herself to read to the burned man, who still hadn't been able to speak. The child's presence seemed to comfort the man, though every time he saw Sofie, he became agitated.

  The stranger was a mystery. At least Sofie knew her first name, though if not for her small silver bracelet, she might not even know that. Still, she suspected he knew his name, but simply couldn't speak. Later in the day, Dr. Wilson planned to move his patient to his home, and Jenny would go with Sofie to the Fleming house.

  So, despite Dora's badgering, this was a good day. At last, Dr. Wilson had declared the epidemic over and lifted the quarantine. Hurray.

  "Did you hear me, Sofie?"

  Still trying to ignore Dora's fingernails-on-a-chalkboard-voice, Sofie concentrated on the last of the bedding. Soon they would turn the building over to the teacher for school again. The walls, ceiling and floor were being scrubbed with strong lye soap, and Dr. Wilson had insisted the children not return to school until the building sat empty for another week.

  However, those who hadn't contracted smallpox had received the inoculation. Sofie sighed, satisfied there would be no more new cases in Redemption.

  "Did you hear me, Sofie?" Dora's whisper seemed louder than a shout right now.

  "Yes, I heard you." Obviously, the only way to shut Dora up was to answer. Sofie smoothed her apron and tugged at the ruffled neckline. Despite her pleading, Mrs. Fleming had refused to return her jeans and T-shirt. "Yes, I have a mark–I believe it's called a tattoo, not a brand–on the side of my breast. It won't wash off. Satisfied?" Straightening, she shot Dora a challenging look.

  Dora's mouth fell open, then she giggled like a schoolgirl hearing her first dirty joke. "Can I see it?"

  "No." Sofie turned and retrieved the stack of folded sheets and towels. "I have no idea what it means or why it's there, but I'm not showing it to you or anyone else."

  "Mother saw it." Dora pouted, her eyes gleaming maliciously as she leaned against the wall. "She said it's some kind of circle with a butterfly under it."

  "And the word peace," Sofie added, "is printed under the butterfly." She shrugged and pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen with her back. "Peace is a nice word, so how could the circle be anything bad, Dora? And the only reason your mother has seen it is because she took care of me while I was sick. Now will you just drop it?"

  "I will if you let me see." A nasty smirk split Dora's round face.

  "You don't really think I'll fall for that, do you?" Sofie couldn't prevent her grin as she proceeded into the kitchen, despite the fallout from Dora's indignant gasp.

  "Well, Miss Uppity," Dora chided, pushing her way into the kitchen on Sofie's heels, "Mother says you'll be staying at our house until you can remember who you are, so I guess I'll see your brand for myself sooner or lat–"

  "Brand?"

  Father Salazar's voice startled Sofie and she juggled the stack of clean linens to keep them from falling to the floor. He rushed forward and grabbed for the stack, his hand brushing against her rib cage.

  His innocent touch sent shockwaves through her and she froze, the linens safely clutched to her chest as he stepped away. Her breath caught as she struggled against the onslaught of desire.

  Again, she remembered the night he'd come to her room and she'd kissed him. No, she'd dreamed the kiss. Get it straight and don't forget it. Even though Mrs. Fleming had confirmed Father Salazar's presence that night, Sofie had to believe the kiss had been a dream.

  She had to.

  "Thank you," she mumbled, trying to avoid his gaze as she hurried to the basket on the table and deposited the linens. The temperature in the room had skyrocketed the moment he'd touched her, deliberately or not.

  Not.

  "Well, this is a great day," Father Salazar said with a sigh. "The epidemic is really over."

  "Yes, praise the Lord," Dora murmured.

  Miraculously, Father Salazar's arrival had stopped Dora's whining. "Yes, it's finally over," Sofie said, not voicing her concerns regarding her own future.

  Concern was a major understatement. Now what? That summed her situation up pretty well. She still couldn't remember her last name or where she was from, and every day that passed made her realize how different she was from the other women of Redemption. Where would she go, what would she do? Surely she fit in somewhere. Belonged somewhere... Besides, she couldn't very well mooch off Mrs. Fleming forever. Gads, she and Dora would be almost sisters. Perish the thought.

  She should talk to Father Salazar again, and insist he tell her everything he could possibly remember about the morning of the explosion. Maybe there was a clue somewhere that would lead her back to the life she'd left behind. Home. She wanted to go home. Didn't she? Yes, of course she did.

  But the prospect of having a private conversation with him made her face flash with heat and her hands tremble. Perspiration trickled down her neck and between her breasts. She had to do this. Her future was at stake.

  Nervously, she rearranged the linens in the basket. Twice. Her memory of that dream kiss was so vivid. So provocative. So...stimulating.

  Deep in her core, she clenched and pulsed with life. It didn't take a medical degree or a memory to diagnose what ailed her. She was horny. Horny? Yet another word she felt certain would shock Mrs. Fleming and Dr. Wilson. To her it seemed a little naughty–as were her thoughts–but not scandalous or shocking.

  Unlike that shockingly disturbing dream...

  Mrs. Fleming's words returned to torment her: "Late last night, I saw Father Salazar running out of your room...."

  My God, her memory of that dream was so real, and he had been in her room. How could she face him alone without knowing the truth? Yet, if there was any chance he might be able to tell her something to help her determine her identity, how could she not?

  "What were you saying when I came in?" Father Salazar asked quietly. "Something about a brand?"

  Dora snickered and Sofie looked up sharply from the basket. Her face grew even hotter and her throat was so dry she couldn't swallow the lump threatening to choke her. Dora wouldn't...

  "Well, Father Salazar, Sofie has some kind of mark with a butterfly on her...her..."

  Sofie shot Dora a scathing look, somewhat comforted by the other woman's obvious distress. Good, I hope she gets a ferocious case of heartburn. "It's nothing," Sofie said. "Nothing at all."

  "A mark? A butterfly, you said?" Father Salazar removed his hat and held it in front of him. "You mean a tattoo. Oh, uh..."

  His gray eyes suddenly widened and a blush crept upward from his open collar. The sunburn he'd had when they first came to Redemption had faded to tan, but at this moment, he was almost as red as that first day.

  Why?

&nbs
p; No one had mentioned the location of Sofie's tattoo, so why was he blushing? Surely he hadn't...seen it?

  He couldn't have. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to remember the dream. Even if it had actually happened–which it hadn't–all she remembered was the kiss. Nothing else.

  Nothing except red hot, molten desire...

  Miss Dr. Sofie What's-Her-Name has a priest fetish.

  Flustered, she reopened her eyes and met Father Salazar's gaze again. A mischievous twinkle danced in the gray depths and one corner of his mouth curved upward, just so.

  The man was laughing at her.

  Not a man–a priest.

  "Well, since Sofie won't show me her brand, I'm going to check on Jenny and see if Mr. Smith needs anything," Dora announced.

  "Mr. Smith?" Father Salazar echoed, looking beyond Sofie at the other woman. "Not another–"

  "No, no." Dora paused and shook her head, her hand resting on the swinging door. "There's no more smallpox, Father, but we needed to call the stranger something, so Jenny named him Mr. Smith."

  "Oh, of course." He sighed again. "And Jenny will go home with you and your mother today?"

  "Absolutely."

  Dora's adamancy on this topic almost made up for her shortcomings, Sofie decided. Almost.

  "If that lowdown Frank Latimer so much as shows his face, I'll use Papa's shotgun on him. Both barrels." In a flourish of ruffles and skirt, Dora left the kitchen.

  Sofie stared at the door as it swung toward them, then back and forth twice more before coming to a stop. They were alone now. Completely alone. She licked her lips and turned to look at Father Salazar again.

  He smiled openly this time, and she became acutely aware of his transformation. The sunburn and baldness had made him seem homely and undesirable, but that hadn't stopped her from dreaming about kissing him. His priest's robe and collar should have helped prevent her dreams and shameless desires, but they hadn't done the job either.

  And now she didn't have even that flimsy deterrent to her apparently wanton nature. He didn't resemble a priest at all now, with a pair of worn jeans and a chambray shirt. A leather belt encircled his trim waist, where he held his hat in front of him right where she should never even think about looking.