by Sherry Lewis
Hannibal, Missouri, 1999. While trying to save two historic houses from an uncertain fate, Shelby Winters is whisked back in time—and into the body of Zacharias Logan’s estranged wife.
Hannibal, Missouri, 1871. Shelby’s undeniably attracted to Zacharias, but if she is to preserve the houses, she must mend the marriage and get back home before she loses her heart—and her heart—completely . . .
All rights reserved
Copyright © 1996 by Sherry Lewis
http://www.sherrylewisbooks.com
This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part,
by any means, without permission.
Publishing History:
Berkley Prime Crime edition, July 1996
Sherry Lewis Kindle edition, September 2015
A Time to Dream
Sherry Lewis
With grateful thanks. . .
to the Coaldancers
Heather Horrocks, Joann Jones, Sherry Leach,
Sherry Mathewson, and Alice Trego.
and to Susette and Robert Williams,
who took time from their romantic anniversary getaway
to pick up research material for a stranger.
and to my former editor and friend,
Gail Fortune, whose faith in me left me speechless,
whose assistance and guidance was always priceless,
and whose phone calls always lifted my spirit.
A Time to Dream
Hannibal, Missouri 1999
Heart thudding, head fuzzy, and eyes still blurry from sleep, Shelby Miller tried not to trip over the hem of her robe as she raced down the grand staircase. She’d been in the middle of a perfectly lovely dream when someone started pounding on the door and jerked her mercilessly awake. Whoever it was, she thought as she stumbled past the landing, they’d better have a good reason for waking her.
Early morning sunlight spilled down the staircase from the huge window on the landing and into the foyer through the full-length windows flanking the door. Even this early—surely not later than seven o’clock—the temperature and the dense Missouri humidity made her long for central air conditioning.
Clutching the collar of her robe, she ran her free hand through the curls she could feel bobbing wildly with every step—the hated curls that had earned her the nickname “Medusa” as a child. She’d probably scare whoever was so rudely—and insistently—banging on the door. Well, if she did, it served them right. Maybe it would teach them a lesson in manners.
Before she could make it to the bottom of the staircase, the pounding started up again. “Hold on,” she shouted impatiently. “I’m coming.” Shelby had never been at her best in the morning, which was one of the reasons she loved her position at Winterhill. She didn’t have to look perky, dress for success, or even be coherent before noon if she didn’t want to be.
Slipping a little as she crossed the polished wood floor, she skidded to a stop in front of the massive door and yanked it open. Jon Davenport, her dearest friend in Hannibal—her only real friend anywhere—stood on the porch, backed by the rising sun, his hand raised to knock again.
She let out an annoyed sigh. “What are you doing?”
Jon lowered his arm quickly and ignored her question. “It’s about time you answered. Where were you?”
“In bed. Asleep.” She stepped aside to let him enter and closed the door behind him. “Why aren’t you at work? And why are you banging on my door like the world’s coming to an end?”
“You might think it has ended when I tell you what I just heard on the morning news.” Jon’s eyes were dark and uncharacteristically solemn, his mouth nothing more than a thin slash cut into his tanned face.
Shelby made another vain attempt to tame her curls. “Okay, I’ll bite. What did you hear?”
“The news report said that Evan McDonald has put Winterhill up for sale.”
It took a moment for Jon’s words to sink in completely, but when they did, the old, familiar anxiety began to pulse through Shelby’s veins. “He’s done what?”
“He’s listed this house on the market.”
Praying that she’d heard wrong, Shelby shook her head. “That can’t be right. He can’t do that.”
“He can,” Jon said, “and, according to the news, he has.”
“But why?” Her voice came out sharp, but she made no effort to soften it as she went on. “I thought he’d decided to restore Winterhill.”
“Apparently, he’s decided not to.”
Time slowed, ice water flowed through her veins, and a steady pounding started somewhere behind her eyes. Working as caretaker at Winterhill for the past six months had given her the first security she’d ever known. She’d even started to believe it would last. She should have known better. “But why didn’t Evan tell me first?”
“Who knows?” Jon moved closer and put a hand on her shoulder. The weight of his hand and the depth of his concern bore down on her.
She tried to step away from both. She’d spent most of her twenty-eight years on her own. Jon’s friendship was the first real tie she’d ever had to anyone or anything, and it still left her slightly off balance.
Jon didn’t let her escape. “Even when Evan’s mother was alive, he didn’t like this house, Shelby. And to tell you the truth, everyone at the historical society was surprised when he hired you instead of selling it after she died.”
She couldn’t bear the gentleness in his voice. It made the pain worse somehow. She’d grown to love Winterhill. She’s let herself dream of staying here in Hannibal. Its history appealed to her and made her long to be a part of it.
She moved toward the front window, glancing outside and letting her gaze linger on the crumbling turrets of the neighboring house that was barely visible above the rows of trees separating the two properties. “What about Summervale?” she asked softly, turning back to face her friend. “What about the movement to save the twin houses?”
“There is no movement,” Jon admitted reluctantly. “I haven’t been able to whip up much excitement about saving Summervale. Most people think it’s already too dilapidated to save. And without Winterhill—” He broke off and shrugged helplessly.
“But the twin houses are a piece of Hannibal’s history.”
“A piece nobody’s much interested in,” Jon reminded her.
Shelby pushed a curl away from her forehead. “Maybe whoever buys Winterhill will be interested in restoring both houses.”
“I doubt it,” Jon said, shaking his head slowly. “People are speculating that Evan will sell this place to some industry or developer.”
Shelby’s heart twisted painfully. “And they’ll tear it down. And Summervale will follow.”
“Probably.”
Tears stung her eyes, but she refused to give in to them. Crying had never solved a problem for her, not even once in her life. “I won’t let that happen,” she said, lifting her chin.
A shadow flitted behind his eyes. “You can’t stop it, Shel. The only real selling point we’ve ever had in trying to save the houses was that they’re less than two miles apart, built by the same man within only a few years of each other, and virtually identical in every respect.”
“Yes. Exactly!” She in front of the window, ignoring the pity she saw on his face, fighting her sudden flash of resentment. “And the mystery, of course.”
“There’s no mystery.” Jon’s voice sharpened slightly as it always did when she raised the subject. “Summervale belonged to a crazy woman who lived as a recluse most of her life—”
“Yes, and Winterhill belonged to the husband and children who lived within spitting distance of her and never saw her.” Shelby let the fear building inside her come out as anger. “And nobody knows why. You can’t tell me
that’s not fascinating stuff.”
“It’s not fascinating stuff,” Jon said, his voice slightly more gentle. “Not fascinating enough to convince anyone to shell out the fortune it would take to restore Summervale. Not enough to save Winterhill.” The pity in his eyes deepened. “Nobody cares, Shelby.”
“I care.” Desperation made the pounding in her head worse. If she couldn’t even convince Jon to fight for the houses, how could she convince anyone else? She waved a jerky hand toward the window and Summervale and tried again. “There was no hint of insanity before Agatha married Zacharias.”
“So, her husband drove her crazy,” Jon said with a lazy shrug. “The point is—”
“The point is,” Shelby interrupted, growing angrier and more hurt by the minute, “if we could find out what happened to her, maybe we could generate public interest in the houses.”
“We’ve tried to find out what happened,” Jon reminded her, “over and over again. Zacharias’s papers hardly mention Agatha at all, and we can’t find any of her letters or journals.”
“That doesn’t mean they don’t exist. There has to be some record somewhere. Some explanation for why Agatha turned her back on her children.”
Jon’s eyes roamed her face, searching, probing, and making her distinctly uncomfortable. “Is that why you’re so obsessed with the Logans?”
“I’m not obsessed,” Shelby insisted. “I’m interested. There’s a difference.”
“Aw, Shelby.” Jon touched her shoulder again. “Finding out why some woman—a woman who’s been dead for more than a hundred years—turned her back on her children isn’t going to explain why your mother abandoned you.”
Shelby jerked away and wished she’d kept that part of her past secret from him, as she had from everyone else. “My mother didn’t abandon me. She put me up for adoption. The fact that nobody ever wanted to adopt me wasn’t her fault.”
Pity filled his entire expression now. “Why do you stick up for your mother, Shel?”
“I’m not sticking up for her,” Shelby said quickly. She hated thinking anyone felt sorry for her. She might not have any idea who her mother was. She might have bounced from one foster home to another as a child. She might even have moved from one city to the next as an adult, but that didn’t mean anybody had to feel sorry for her. Many people had difficult childhoods. It happened, and she’d long ago adjusted to the hard parts of her own life.
She forced a laugh and tried to change the subject. “We’re not talking about me,” she said firmly. “We’re talking about the twin houses.” She put some distance between herself and Jon again, trailing her fingers across the gleaming wood of the bannister. “If Agatha hadn’t died so young. Or if Zacharias had stayed in Hannibal. . . If they’d stayed together, there’d probably still be Logans living in both of these houses, and they wouldn’t be in danger now.”
“Maybe,” Jon said without conviction. “But Agatha did die, and Zacharias didn’t stay. And the houses have brought bad luck to every family who’s tried to live in them since.”
“That’s nothing but superstition.”
“Maybe.” Jon glanced at a scowling portrait of Zacharias hanging on the wall of the landing. “But wishing things had turned out differently won’t change anything.”
“I know that.” And she did. Only too well. She dropped onto one of the steps and stretched out her legs in front of her. “I’m not delusional, but I can’t stand by and let these houses be destroyed, Jon. I just can’t.”
Jon sat beside her, his shoulder barely grazing hers. “What do you have in mind?”
“Nothing, unfortunately. Not yet, anyway.”
Jon put a hand over hers and rested his cheek on the top of her head. “If I thought you had a chance, I’d help you in whatever way I could. You know that, right?” She nodded uncertainly and he let out a sigh that spoke of tested patience. “Why don’t I ask around and see if I can find you another job somewhere?”
Shelby fought the urge to draw away. “I don’t want another job. I want to save the twin houses.”
“I know. And I wish I knew of a way for you to do that. But I just don’t want you to get your hopes up. You can’t rewrite history.”
“Well, I wish I could,” she muttered as a wave of futility crashed over her.
Maybe she should know better than to get her hopes up. Maybe she should have learned her lesson after watching her dreams vaporize one by one over the years. But everything had seemed so different here in Hannibal, and the longer she stayed, the more she loved it.
She took a deep breath and tried to pull herself together. But she couldn’t face losing another home and having to start all over again. After the last time, she’d vowed it wouldn’t happen again. And that was a promise she intended to keep—no matter what it took.
Clutching a hammer in one hand and a crowbar in the other, Shelby checked behind her one last time to make sure no one had watched her cross the boundary between Winterhill and Summervale. Even with the deep shade of oak and willow trees to block the sun, the heat was vicious and unrelenting.
Far below, at the bottom of Union Street Hill, she could see the Mississippi river curving lazily toward the bluff below town as it made its way toward the ocean. But only the hum of insects and the slight rustling of a much-needed breeze in the branches overhead broke the stillness.
She moved on, down one short hill and up another toward the gardens, pushing through waist-high weeds and overgrown hedges until she came to a stop in Summervale’s neglected front garden. Pollen teased her nose and bug flew up from the wild grass as she walked, but she was more concerned about what she saw in front of her.
Unsightly weeds filled what must once have been beautifully tended beds of flowers, hedges, and ornamental shrubs. More weeds grew unchecked along the circular drive and wrapped around the trunks of trees that had grown together to form a canopy over the drive.
The sun beat down upon her unmercifully while she stared at the house in front of her. Sheets of weathered plywood covered the windows and doors. Paint peeled in strips from the trim. Bricks crumbled. Shutters sagged at the plywood windows. Branches from an overgrown willow clawed at the roof of the grand porte cochére and second-floor windows above it.
Shelby ran her arm across her forehead, wiping away the dirt and perspiration that trickled into her eyes. Somewhere inside, she’d find Agatha’s papers and journals. She just knew she would. And somewhere inside them she’d find the means to save the twin houses.
Slowly, carefully, she made her way through the overgrown garden and up the front steps. The boards creaked and groaned under her weight and made her wish she wasn’t still packing that extra ten pounds from last winter.
What if she fell through one of these rotting boards and broke a leg? Who would find her? And if someone did find her, what possible explanation would she give for being here?
Well, she told herself firmly, that just wouldn’t happen. She wouldn’t get hurt and she wouldn’t get caught. Period. End of story.
Working quickly, she pried the nails from the plywood over the door and hefted the unwieldy board to one side. Dusting her hands on her jeans, she turned to face the door. She hesitated at the threshold with one hand on the heavy brass knob. She’d waited so long to see inside Summervale, she almost hated to spoil the moment. But success never came to the faint of heart.
Squaring her shoulders, she opened the door and plunged into the near-darkness. Musty air rushed to fill her nostrils. Cobwebs trailed from light fixtures to doorways to the few pieces of heavy furniture that hadn’t been removed. Deep shadows filled the broad foyer, relieved only by the sunlight that crept in through the doorway behind her and snuck around the boards covering the window on the landing.
A grand staircase rose to a broad landing then on to the second floor, just as it did at Winterhill. An identical window seat, made of the same rich, dark wood graced a bay window that she knew overlooked the back gardens and the rows of trees that se
parated the two houses. At least she wouldn’t have trouble finding her way around. That was a plus. The two houses did, indeed, appear to be identical. Except that Summervale was somehow more.
She turned slowly, marveling at everything. Winterhill was beautiful, of course, but it paled by comparison to the original. Not in its current state, of course, but certainly in Shelby’s imagination.
Sighing softly, she whispered to the empty house. “You must have been absolutely breathtaking. How could Agatha bear to keep you hidden away?” There were no answers, of course. And Shelby gave herself a stern warning to stop daydreaming and get down to business.
Abandoning the crowbar near the bottom of the stairs, she pulled a flashlight from the back pocket of her jeans and started up the stairs. Instinct told her Agatha must have occupied the large turret room overlooking the front drive. It was the largest bedroom at Winterhill, and graced by a massive fireplace with an ornately carved mantle. It was the room she would have chosen, anyway, and as good a place as any to start her search.
She followed the flashlight’s pale beam up the stairs to the second floor landing. Without even a slight breeze to stir the air, the heat inside was suffocating. Perspiration trickled down her back and her temples. But even with the discomfort, the bedroom was everything she’d imagined—even with the cobwebs, the missing floorboards, and the dressing table, complete with a cracked and broken mirror, listing precariously to one side.
Shelby gave her imagination free rein for a moment, picturing the room as might have been once. Agatha’s bed would have rested against the short wall, she thought. Chairs would have flanked the fireplace. Perhaps a frame had held Agatha’s needlework in front of the hearth. A writing table might have stood near the windows to catch the sun.
