Wakening the Past: A Time Travel Romance (Medicine Stick Series Book 2)

by Barbara Bartholomew

  She left the office without saying goodbye to her husband, figuring he was too absorbed in what he was doing to notice her departure. Her intention was to go home, but once past the small crowd of lawmen, news photographers and the general public, she found instead that she was strolling the streets of the town of ten thousand. Other than working here and occasionally going out to lunch with her husband, she wasn’t particularly acquainted with the town named for a nearby chain of ancient risings that out-of-staters like to say were more the height of hills than mountains.

  Her memories were from the long-ago community of Medicine Stick, covered since the ‘40s by a man-made lake. Brought here by chance or some freak of nature she didn’t understand, she had taken the place of another woman, living under her identity but with little of her memory of a life spent largely in the late 20th century.

  She tried not to dwell on the switch that had cost the real Hart Benson her life and left her here in Hart’s body, pretending that Hart’s family, the fortune she’d inherited from her grandparents and the university education Hart had earned all belonged to her. The one relationship that was truly her own was her marriage to Alistair. They’d fallen in love after she’d come here, married, and then for a while she’d forgotten him. But her memory of her own life was back and she knew there was nothing false about their love.

  Last winter she had decided it was time to leave the past behind and start living a happy ever after life with Alistair. Only, somehow, it wasn’t quite that easy.

  Wichita was a very different town than picturesque little Mountainside, which hovered in the shade of granite mountains. It was a prairie town, appearing abruptly on the highway that led south to Texas, a place where you could find a big Wal-Mart, a couple of grocery stores and a number of fast-food eating places.

  Only the gracious old courthouse located on the main street that also served as the highway out of town gave off a distinctive air of time and history.

  In Mountainside she would have known how to go about looking for Mr. Jeffers, but though a town of ten thousand might not seem crowded to most people, to Hart, who had grown up in Medicine Stick with about a hundred and ninety nine other residents, it might as well be a city.

  And for Mr. Jeffers, who hadn’t seen freedom since he was a kid in the ‘50s, it had to be bewildering.

  She tried to think where he would go as he stumbled out of the courthouse, aware that he would quickly be pursued. She imagined herself in his shoes, standing on the steps out front, facing the busy highway, staring at the little strip mall on the other side. To his left would be a gas station and on the right a small Mexican restaurant where she and Alistair had occasionally lunched. Where would he have gone?

  She drew in a deep breath, feeling fairly sure that Nolan Jeffers would have simply turned around and gone back inside the courthouse and into custody.

  But since that obviously hadn’t happened, she tried to reconsider options and, with small conviction she was making the right decision, headed for the little shopping center across the street.

  Feeling somewhat like a mother trying to locate a missing toddler, she quickly strolled through the lanes of an almost empty grocery store, investigated a craft center where three women sat quilting together, went through the Dollar Market and walked past three buildings that were closed. Apparently business wasn’t particularly lively in the little shopping center, or even more likely, most potential customers had joined the crowd of onlookers across the street.

  As she went back past the craft center, one of the quilters stepped out to question her. “You looking for the dangerous criminal who got away this morning?” a middle aged woman in jeans and shirt asked pleasantly.

  Dangerous criminal! Poor Mr. Jeffers. “No,” she said, “actually I’m trying to find a friend of mine. Older man, looks to be in his sixties or seventies, white hair, lots of it for a man his age.” And he was dressed in an orange prison jump suit, she could have added, but figured that would have been noticeable enough to get him identified as the aforesaid dangerous criminal.

  “Didn’t see anybody like that,” the woman said, “mostly women around here this morning, moms with small children down shopping at the grocery store.”

  “Thanks,” Hart said politely. “I was worried about my friend because I’m not sure he was thinking clearly.”

  “Dementia,” the woman affirmed knowledgeably.

  “Not exactly. Just perhaps a little confused by circumstances.”

  The woman’s face melted from sternness to a look of sympathy. “I’ll be here all afternoon. If you’ll give me your number, I’ll call if I see him.”

  Hart reached into her purse, taking out a tiny note-pad to scribble her name and cell phone number, handing it to the woman. “I’d appreciate it,” she said, “Mrs. . .” She paused, waiting for the other woman’s name.

  “Mrs. Long,” she said. “Susie Long.”

  No, it couldn’t be. “You’re not related to Deputy Mark Long?”

  Suddenly a smile was beamed her way. “My husband,” she said, looking down at the scrap of paper Hart had handed her. “Hart Benson,” she read, then her expression changed again, becoming wary. “You’d be the sheriff’s wife. Mark has mentioned you.”

  She couldn’t seem to get away fast enough then, saying a quick farewell and scuttling back into the craft center so abruptly that Hart was left staring.

  That had certainly been odd.

  As sheriff of Wichita County, Alistair Redhawk felt a strong responsibility for the escape of a prisoner allowed by a member of his department. He ducked press interviews until late in the day, hoping Nolan Jeffers would be found before then, but by six p.m. he had little choice but to face up to a rare and undesired experience, a press conference.

  He didn’t so much mind seeing Harlan Shepherd who ran the Wichita newspaper in the crowd. His was a familiar face. But the rest were from larger newspapers in neighboring counties and, worst of all, were the cameramen that represented Oklahoma City and Lawton televisions stations.

  The first question was daunting. “Sheriff,” one of the out-of-towners called, “How does a man that age run fast enough to get away?” and around him laughter rippled through the crowd.

  Alistair didn’t as much as crack a smile, but waited in the dim gray of a day that looked like it might break into rain again at any minute, hoping a downpour would start without delay, driving all the visitors away from the steps of the courthouse.

  When the laughter died away, he made a short and simple statement. “Wichita County and the town of Wichita law enforcement are cooperating to locate and recapture escaped prisoner Nolan Jeffers with all dispatch. Citizens who happen to see Jeffers are to call us immediately and not try to take the prisoner into custody as he must be considered dangerous.”

  Laughter broke out again. “Hey, sheriff,” a bystander called. “I’ve seen a picture of this guy. He looks like a sweet old guy who wouldn’t harm a fly.”

  Again Alistair, who was long on patience and not given to explosive demonstrations, waited. When the noise died down he added, “Nolan Jeffers has been a model prisoner for years now, but he has spent most of his life behind bars and may be confused and frightened by his sudden freedom. And we ask the public to remember that he was sent to prison for a violent murder and we can’t be sure how he will respond to these challenging circumstances.”

  No laughter this time. People looked at each other, than back at him. The same man who had called out before, said, “I heard he beat a man to death,” he said, “for no reason that anybody could figure out.”

  “He killed my dad!” The moment came that Alistair had been expecting. A slim elderly man edged into the crowd, coming up to confront the sheriff. “I was just a little boy when I stood there and watched him kill my dad. The man’s a maniac and you, all of you . . .” Bill Maxwell turned to face the crowd, “You just better hope you don’t run into him.”

  Chapter Three

  Never before ha
d Bobbi Lawrence betrayed the trust her parents showed her. Both of them busy physicians, they’d given their fourteen-year-old daughter credit cards and access to cash to manage household emergencies or personal needs whenever they were tied up at work and boasted to their friends about how responsible she had proved to be.

  But after months of nightmares and troubling illusions, she knew she had to go back to the place where her great-aunt had died and look for answers.

  Most especially she had to know why she still thought of Hart Benson as Stacia Larkin so that when she looked at the woman she had seemed to see past to another vision of a tall red-haired woman wearing clothes from another era.

  And why she seemed to hear that woman’s voice in her head.

  So this morning when Mom and Dad were gone to the hospital where they worked, instead of heading for school, she packed enough clothes for a week and called a cab to take her to the airport.

  She was an experienced traveler, having often accompanied her grandmother on trips both in the U.S. and abroad and had arranged her flight several days ago. At the airport, she preceded competently through the various steps required by current security standards and after a wearying amount of time found herself on a plane headed for Oklahoma City. From there she would take a commuter flight to Lawton and then another taxi to the rural address where Hart Benson Redhawk lived.

  Still it was something of a surprise when she arrived at the country home of Sheriff Redhawk and his wife, paying the taxi driver from nearby Lawton after he’d carried her single bag to the front porch, to find it apparently deserted. No vehicles were parked in sight and nobody answered her knock on the door.

  “You sure you want to stay here?” the driver asked. “Nobody’s seems to be at home.”

  Bobbi was nothing if not quick thinking. “My aunt is on her way,” she said. “She should be here any minute now.”

  She drew an easier breath once she saw the taxi move away. The man had thought it strange that she’d wanted to be driven such a long way and told her it would be expensive. She hadn’t known any other method to get here without asking for help. And she thought the minute she told Hart and Alistair she was coming, they’d be tattling to her parents. Grownups tended to stick together that way.

  Mom and Dad might not get why she’d done this, but Granny would once she’d explained. But she hadn’t dared wait for her approval. If she’d waited any longer, her head might have split in too.

  With a sense of her mission accomplished, Bobbi tried both the front and back doors. The owner was a sheriff so, of course, both were securely locked. Ditto the windows.

  So she settled down on the front porch in a cushioned chair and watched as the rain that had let up long enough for her ride began to fall in sheets. It was getting colder too, so she dug a heavy sweater from her bag and put it on, wishing she had a thick coat.

  She hoped Hart got here soon and tried to think what she would say when that happened.

  A good explanation hadn’t come into her head two hours later, even though she had consulted with three friends in California, binding them with oaths not to talk to her parents about where she was. She’d tried the doors and checked the windows again because even on the shelter of the porch, she was beginning to shiver.

  She went out to the old barn back of the house for shelter and found it dark and empty, smelling of old hay and varmints. An owl spooked her, calling from the rafters overhead, and she ran toward the open doorway, only to see a man on horseback riding from the line of trees to the north.

  He looked tall and solemn, his skin wrinkled and weathered, his eyes fixed straight ahead. A colorful blanket wrapped his shoulders and he had feathers and beads strung in his long hair. The horse he rode looked like it had been painted with black and white brushes, its markings distinctive and beautiful.

  Back at home kids said ‘awesome’ rather frequently, but this man was truly that, a sight to inspire awe. She held her breath as he rode up to her, bringing the stunning horse to a halt.

  He nodded, but didn’t speak. His face looked ancient and wise and she held her breath to see what would happen next.

  He motioned to her to follow and she did so, the wind whipping at her as she stepped from the shelter of the old barn, but she obeyed him nonetheless, feeling she could do nothing else, and the man on horseback led her to the back of the house, where he got down and walked over, opening what had been a locked door the last time she tried it, and holding it ajar as he nodded to her to get inside out of the cold.

  She ran inside, anxious to get out of the freezing weather, than stood waiting for him to join her. Instead he went back to climb gracefully on to his horse. She watched while he turned the horse and rode back to the north, vanishing into the dark and the cover of the trees, then she closed the door and went into the depths of the warm house, where she settled herself gratefully in a giant-sized chair and tried to think about what had just happened to her.

  Just this morning Hart had told herself she’d never complain about rain again, but as she drove home after a long and fruitless search for Nolan Jeffers, she couldn’t help the passing thought that she’d prefer if it had held off a little longer.

  The rain had returned with a vengeance, bringing early nightfall so that she had to keep her windshield wipers flashing and her gaze intent on what her lights showed her of the road ahead.

  Not that traffic on the narrow road that led the last miles to the ranch was common. At this time of night when most folks were already home from work, it was unusual to meet even a single vehicle. The greater danger was from the increasing number of deer breeding and making homes in the pastures and sparse woodlands. Having one of those wander into the path of her little car could mean disaster for both her and the deer.

  She slowed the car as she entered an area of increased hiding places for wild animals and tried to concentrate on her driving, rather than wondering if Mr. Jeffers was out in this cold, wintry rain.

  Well, Alistair and his people would be searching. Perhaps by now they’d already found him and he was safe back in the prison cell where he’d lived for so long.

  She got a quick glance in her rear-view mirror of a dark-haired, blue-eyed woman and, as usual, for just a split instant had to remind herself that this was her. Originally graced with vivid red hair and dark-brown eyes, she’d never gotten quite used to this new image of herself.

  But thankfully since the night when she’d faced down a murderer in the streets of old Medicine Stick, almost fifty five years ago now, she no longer slipped from this body she occupied—Hart Benson’s body—to go back to her original identity as Stacia Larkin.

  She lived in the here and now as Hart Benson Redhawk, wife to the county sheriff and librarian at the state prison near the county seat town of Wichita.

  The town where she’d been born had long vanished underneath the waters of a lake and if she grieved daily for the family she would never see again, she tried to dismiss that pain and be grateful for all she had left.

  She’d just pulled into the drive that led to the ranch house she shared with her husband when her phone chimed and, hoping it was Alistair calling to tell her that Mr. Jeffers had been safely found, she answered.

  “Hi. Hart here.”

  “Hart,” she barely recognized the distraught voice that said her own name. “Have you seen my granddaughter?”

  The question jolted her almost as much as the unexpected contact from a woman she’d never thought to hear from again. Serena Hudson was a relative, in a way, of the woman she used to be. She was the daughter of Stacia’s late sister, Helen, but only she and Alistair were aware of the connection.

  As far as Serena knew she was Hart Benson. Why then would she be calling? And why was she asking about her granddaughter Bobbi?”

  “No, Serena, I haven’t heard anything from Bobbi since the two of you went home last November.”

  “So sorry to bother you, but we’re all about out of our minds out here in La Verne. B
obbi has run away, leaving a note saying she had no choice, but to go back to Oklahoma. I’ve notified the sheriff’s office, but I wasn’t able to talk to Mr. Redhawk and his secretary just said they’d be on the look out for my granddaughter. She’s not yet fifteen, Hart, and never been on her own.”

  Hart didn’t know what to say. She had become fond of the outgoing teen who reminded her a little of Helen, more in physical appearance than personality. Helen had never been so sure of herself, nor so outspoken. Back in the 1940s when she and Helen grew up, girls were encouraged to be more tactful. But why was Serena calling her?

  “She kept saying she needed to talk to you.” She got an explanation without asking for it. “I must say, she’s seemed very troubled since we came home and has had nightmares and trouble focusing on her school work. Her parents have been so concerned.”

  Distracted by the call, Hart found her Nissan swerving toward the big cottonwood on the right side of the drive and cautiously brought the car to a stop. “Things have been a little chaotic at the county seat today,” she tried to explain. “They had a prisoner escape and are busy looking for him. But I will talk to Alistair about Hart. If she’s come here, we’ll do everything we can to find her.”

  Serena thanked her profusely, sounding as though she was near tears, than ended the call.

  She pulled the car into the garage that had been added on to the house in recent years, then went into the house without having to go outside. Central heat kept the house from freezing, but she turned up the thermostat and touched the lighter to the wood Alistair had placed in the living room fireplace.

  It was only when she turned away from the growing fire that she saw the girl huddled in the huge rose-colored chair which had been the property of Alistair’s mother and where she now liked to sit and read.