The Messenger: Mortal Beloved Time Travel Romance, #1

by Pamela DuMond

  “What happened to him?” I walked toward them but definitely stayed outside of his stall. That was one tall horse.

  “War wound,” Samuel said. “He was General Jebediah Ballard’s horse.”

  “Elizabeth’s husband?”

  Samuel nodded.

  “How did he get hurt?”

  “Jebediah rode with fifteen of his men to meet with the Plymouth colonists to strategize battle plans. They were ambushed by Philip’s warriors, not far from here, in a corn field.”

  “Oh.” My hand that covered the hole in my dress flew to my chest. “That’s why Elizabeth is so afraid.”

  Samuel nodded. “Nathan was struck by an arrow that pierced deep into his shoulder. Even though he was in great pain, he carried his master back home. He saved Jebediah.” He stroked the horse’s mane.

  “Nathan was determined,” I said. “He has a strong, loyal spirit.”

  “Some people believed it was a miracle. Others thought it was lucky, but a waste,” Samuel said. “There was great debate whether Nathan should be put down.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I’ve spent enough years in animal rescue to realize you don’t discard a soul, just because it is not perfect.”

  “A lame horse with an infected leg is a burden during a war. They do not have time or efforts for charitable causes here.”

  I realized why Elizabeth wanted me to do well with the Reverend.

  “But you’re trying to save him,” I said.

  “Not just save him. I want him to be strong again. I want him to be able to go back into the unknown, maybe frightened, but still follow his horse nature.” Samuel looked at me. “Which is to be a messenger.”

  Whoa. Angeni said I was a Messenger. “What do you mean, ‘a messenger’?”

  He scratched Nathan’s nose, massaged his neck, and worked his hands down to the horse’s shoulder. “The Great Spirit taught us horses are strong, animal messengers. If a person has horse as his totem, he has the power and endurance to deliver powerful messages.”

  Nathan flinched, and stepped away from him. But Samuel didn’t chase or crowd him. He just stood and waited. “This will make you feel better,” he said and whispered words to Nathan in a language I’d never heard before. “Trust me.”

  The horse eyed Samuel, took a few steps toward him and lowered his head. “Good boy.” Samuel put his face next to his and rubbed more salve around the wound.

  I reached my hand over the paddock gate and petted Nathan’s head. “You’re a hero, Nathan. You must get better quickly.”

  Samuel placed his hand on top of mine. “You are different since the attack.”

  “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” I asked and realized his gaze was direct. He looked me straight in the eyes.

  “It is a good thing.”

  My heart pounded. Oh jeez, could a teenager have a heart attack? “Okay.” In the near distance, a bell clanged loudly and I jumped. “What’s that?”

  “Means there is news.” Samuel slowly released my hand. “We gather at the commons. Remember?”

  “Right,” I felt my skin tingle where his fingers had touched me. Was this my over-sensitivity thing, or something I’d never felt before, and didn’t even have words to describe? I walked toward the barn door.

  “Abigail?”

  My heart pounded and my face burnt, and I had the strangest magical feelings. What if he said he liked me since the day we met? I meant me as Abigail. I turned toward him. “Yes, Samuel?”

  “There is something you need to know.”

  Those hazel eyes of his were doing a number on my brain and I think I actually squinted when I looked at him. It was kind of like looking at a really bright star in the sky, on the blackest of nights. “Yes?”

  “You forgot this,” Samuel said, and tossed the corset to me.

  Chapter 13

  The courier who delivered the news that day on the commons was a twenty-something guy, with a bad case of acne, wearing filthy, colonial clothes. His job was to share war updates with the various colonial communities fighting Philip’s war.

  The garrison’s people huddled together in small, clubby groups to hear his report. I could practically touch the anxiety hanging in the air.

  The courier’s news wasn’t great. The garrison’s men had traveled south and met up with more colonial soldiers to battle Philip’s warriors. But no one seemed to know or could figure out where Philip or his men were hiding.

  That’s because they attacked quickly: raiding and burning settlements. There were a few full-blown battles. But not one that Jebediah or the garrison’s men had engaged in. It seemed like a case of hurry up and wait. A collective sigh of relief rose from the crowd, that none of their men were missing or dead.

  But the courier had more to report. “Your relatives might be safe—for now. But one must be careful. Philip’s spies are everywhere. They recently kidnapped Patience Donaldson, a pious woman, as well as a pastor’s wife. They hold her hostage, even as I give you this message.”

  There was a flurry of excited mutterings. Elizabeth shushed the crowd and asked, “How do you know Mistress Donaldson is alive?”

  The crowd quieted, and the courier regarded Elizabeth, dubiously. “We know. I cannot tell you how or why,” he said.

  “Do you negotiate for her release?”

  “I cannot answer any more questions, Mistress Ballard,” he said and walked away accompanied by the Reverend Wilkins. Several young men in the village, including Tobias, Samuel’s friend, followed them, and seemed to hang on their conversation.

  I looked at Elizabeth. Her face had turned ghost white, almost gray, and she clutched her stomach.

  I put my hand on her shoulder. “All things considered, the news was pretty good, Lizzie. You okay? Can I help?”

  “I do not think so.” She shook it off, and stood up straight.

  * * *

  Sunday came, and as we promised, Elizabeth and I went to church services. The church was packed with the women, children, and the few men left in the garrison as well as the handful of Natives that the colonists deemed “friendly”.

  I had learned that the colonists called the friendly Natives, “Praying Indians.” Just like every second-class citizen in any culture, they were not only expected to attend services, but could only do so if they stood at the back of the building.

  A grayish rock veined with white quartz crystal that was bigger than my fist rested on the Reverend Wilkins’s pulpit. It functioned as a paperweight, and held down his sermons and other scribbling.

  Reverend Wilkins shook his Bible a lot, (another possible upper body workout,) and lectured about the wages of sin, religious freedom, and the dangers of leaving the old country for the new land.

  The old land held the threat of religious persecution, imprisonment, and never ever being able to strike out on your own. Unless you were nobility, you couldn’t own your own land and had to pay ridiculous taxes. You were basically a peasant, which meant you were poor and screwed for your entire, relatively short, miserable life.

  The new land called The Americas, held the promise of gold, riches from the fur or silk trades, and you could actually own land. You’d have to work that land, have religious freedom, but had to commit to a tough life filled with harsh weather, hard labor, and awful farming conditions.

  During the first hour, Reverend Wilkins lectured about piety, piousness, and hating one’s enemies. He segued into we are right, and they are wrong, and perhaps there was a hidden advertisement in there somewhere for hemorrhoid crème.

  That’s when I felt Elizabeth bump my arm with hers ’cause apparently I’d dozed off. My head rested on her shoulder as I woke with a start, and heard muffled snorts from the back of the church. I swiveled my head and saw both Tobias and Samuel elbowing each other while they tried not to laugh.

  I glared at them, and made the universal sign for ‘Zip it,’ across my lips.

  Elizabeth frowned, and nudged me again.

  The Revere
nd Wilkins paused in the middle of his sermon, and squinted at me.

  I widened my eyes to beyond innocent standards, and pretended to touch my lips as if a wisp of hair had landed on them.

  The Reverend harrumphed, and then preached for another butt-numbing hour.

  * * *

  Elizabeth and I left the church with the rest of the garrison’s inhabitants. Many of them seemed to be rubbing their behinds or stretching their backsides. “Tell me it’s not always this bad. Tell me we don’t have to do this every Sunday,” I said.

  “We have to do this every Sunday,” Elizabeth said.

  “I can’t take it.”

  “You always have in the past.” Elizabeth nodded and smiled at all the people, primarily colonists, as well as a few Praying Indians, who stared at us, curious. “I need you to say something nice to just one of these people,” she whispered into my ear. “I would like to be rid of the witch rumors.”

  “What!” I said. “That’s just crazy talk.”

  “You have been very different, Abigail, since the attack,” she said.

  Well of course I’ve been different. I wasn’t flippin’ Abigail and I’d never lived in the year 1675.

  “If convicted of being a witch, they will drown you or hang you.”

  I shuddered. Neither sounded appealing. “Fine. How do I put the kibosh on the witch rumors?”

  “Compliment some of the women. For example, Mistress Powter.” Elizabeth delicately nodded in her direction. “She is the woman with the unfortunate wart on her chin. But she is the best weaver in the garrison. She made the blankets that covered you when you were sick.”

  I scanned the crowd and spotted the wart-chinned lady. “Mistress Powter!” I said. “Awesome to see you here. Wasn’t that an exciting sermon?” Out of the corner of my eye I saw Elizabeth bite her lip.

  Mistress Powter eyed me suspiciously. “Yes, Abigail?” The five chatty, middle-aged women hovering around her eyeballed me too.

  Suddenly I felt like something that was about to be squished onto a slide and examined under a microscope in biology class at Preston Academy.

  “I am so remiss in thanking you, Mistress Powter,” I said. “My sincerest apologies. I have been recovering. Your warm, wool blankets helped me heal when I was sick. You are extremely talented, Mistress Powter. With wool and weaving and… blanket making. Thank you.”

  She paused and then nodded at me. “You are welcome, Miss Abigail.” She beamed and walked away, while her friends surrounded her and clucked.

  “Not a witch,” one of them said.

  “Not smart enough to be a spy,” another replied.

  “Still addled,” a third woman chimed in as they walked off.

  Elizabeth patted my arm. “That was perfect.”

  In the near distance, Tobias grinned at me, and slugged Samuel on the arm.

  Samuel caught my eye and winked.

  Oh my God. My skin got tingly and I felt a little lightheaded for a few seconds. (Note to self: pull it together. Don’t be a dork.) I gave my brain a mental shake. Maybe if I could fit in for a while without getting killed, I’d find the way back to my real life. I thought about Samuel and my heart did flip-flops. Maybe, before I traveled back to my real life—maybe I’d even fall in love.

  Chapter 14

  The days rolled by. I helped Elizabeth with the chores and reined in the school kids. Every other day I’d find an excuse to go find some quiet time at the barn. Where I’d secretively meet Samuel.

  We talked about how Nathan was getting better, what my life was like with Elizabeth. He told me he lived with Angeni—that she was like a mother to him. I asked him what happened to his parents, but he just shrugged and shut up. Didn’t seem like he wanted to talk about it.

  One day he asked me to teach him the yoga warriors. So I did.

  “Watch me,” I said and took a Warrior One pose. And yes, I was fully dressed this time.

  “I am watching.” He massaged Nathan the horse’s neck, shoulder, and leg. “Have you seen a stronger warrior, Nathan?”

  I willed myself not to blush. “Do you really want to learn this?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then come over here and do what I’m doing.”

  He did, but his alignment was awful. His knees weren’t lined up, and his hips were definitely off.

  “No.” I tapped Samuel’s knee with my finger. “Bend your front knee so it lines up directly over your ankle,” I said. “Otherwise, if you practice poor form for any length of time, you will totally screw up your knee. Then you might need arthroscopic surgery or something.”

  “No surgery.” He shook his head. “I heard that is torture.”

  “Arthroscopic surgery’s not that bad.”

  “The father of my friend was shot during a battle. The doctor performed surgery. Cut off his leg to save him,” he said.

  I winced. “That’s awful. How long was he in the hospital?”

  “The doctor took his leg on the battlefield. He still screams at night when he hears the sawing sounds in his head.”

  I think my blood pressure plummeted, and I probably turned deadly white, as Samuel grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “Show me more Warriors.”

  “I don’t know.” I felt a little queasy. “Maybe I should go.” Go back to the clattering of el trains, TV, movies, the Internet, my school, friends, and family. Back to modern times where they did surgeries in hospitals.

  He placed my hand on top of his knee. “Stay. Show me.”

  I felt the muscles in his leg. He was so strong. He placed a finger under my chin and tilted it up, so I looked into his eyes. He was beautiful. His cheekbones were high, his eyelashes jet black and long, his nose regal, and his lips full. I was doomed.

  Back at home, a guy as hot as Samuel would never be interested in me. He might say, “Hey,” to me at a club if he knew I was a friend to Chaka, whose parents were music mogul gods. But he’d quickly move on and start checking out the models that were at all these events for schmoozing reasons. Then I’d never see or talk to that guy again.

  Samuel put his hand on my cheek. “Where are you?” he asked.

  “I was just thinking about my home,” I said.

  “What about your home?”

  “I really miss it. Is that crazy?” I asked.

  “No. The Endicotts were good people,” he replied.

  “Not the Endicotts.” I flashed to those first moments I woke up on that blood-soaked ground surrounded by all the colonists who had been slaughtered. Which was also the first moment I laid eyes on Samuel, as he surveyed the scene, me, and then disappeared into the woods with Tobias.

  “You are not Abigail, are you?” Samuel asked.

  Dang. There was no way I’d be answering his question.

  “Warrior Two.” I pulled away from him. “Stretch your back leg behind you, and turn your heel slightly in.”

  He did.

  I reached down and adjusted his heel. “Now extend this arm.” I tapped his left arm. Amazing sensations flooded my body. I felt like I’d downed a shot of honesty mixed with a chaser of courage.

  It was coming through Samuel to me. Why wasn’t I meeting his magical soul back in Chicago? I was increasingly overwhelmed by desires to be with him for real. (Note to self: not the best idea to fall for a guy who lives three hundred plus years before you were born.)

  “What do you want me to do now?” he asked.

  I was still holding onto his arm. Oops. My hand flew off him. “Sorry!” What did I want him to do? Be real for me, I thought. Do not vanish; don’t disappear.

  “Abigail was never nice to me. She kept to herself, had secrets she did not share,” Samuel said.

  I covered a cough. “Maybe she changed. I mean I changed. Stretch your arm toward, um, the door and your other arm in the opposite direction,” I said. “Toward me.”

  He did. “Do us both a favor. Tell me your real name?” He asked while he mastered a perfect Warrior Two pose. Strong, fierce, sexy. Th
e only thing left for him to perfect the pose was—

  “Right,” I said. “Turn your head, and face out over your front arm.”

  “Show me.” He closed his eyes and waited.

  Samuel was in an almost perfect lunge. How was it possible that this mysterious guy and I could have this chemistry, this connection? Perhaps I was the only one feeling it. Maybe he was just meant to be a friend or a mentor, or worst-case scenario, temporary, like Brett.

  “Breathe, Samuel.” I placed my hands on each side of his beautiful face, and turned it toward me. Nathan whinnied and stomped his foot. “Open your eyes. You’re new to yoga. You don’t want to fall.”

  His blinked his eyes open. Our faces were inches apart. “Sometimes falling can be a good thing.”

  “Oh.”

  “I promise you.” He took my hands in his, and placed them on his chest on top of his heart. “I promise you, I will tell no one. I will keep your secret. Tell me your real name and where you are from.”

  A few seconds passed but they might as well have been hours as my heartbeat drummed in my ears. “My name is Madeline Blackford,” I said. “Madeline Abigail Blackford from Chicago. Illinois. Over three hundred years in the future.” I ripped my hands from his, and ran out the door.

  * * *

  Even though all I could think about was Samuel, I didn’t go back to the barn for a couple of days. My feelings bounced all over the map. I was petrified of making a jerk out of myself.

  It’s not like Samuel could google me. But what if he changed his mind and thought I was crazy? I didn’t think I could take that right now.

  So I buried myself in household chores and helped Elizabeth. Lucky for me that her school had several new students.

  Elizabeth was smart, clever, and educated. She was a gifted and compassionate teacher to twelve colonial children. They sat on small, rustic, wooden benches gathered around the fireplace and clutched their little, handmade books. I learned they were called hornbooks—a wooden paddle with some papers stuck on top.