Beneath a Beating Heart

by Lauri Robinson

  Beth wouldn’t do that. There’d be no need to.

  Another shiver made his spine quiver. Maybe this wasn’t his Beth. What if she was telling the truth and—

  “Where’d you go?”

  He laid a hand on the mirror. “I’m here, but I have to check the coffee.”

  “Are you using that stove?”

  “Yes.” He moved away from the table but didn’t go far. The idea this wasn’t Beth, his Beth, was too impossible to believe. Almost as unbelievable as living in two worlds, time traveling, and ghosts. He had no experience in believing in such things, other than in reading books. Books that Beth had brought here after they got married. She had all kinds of books. He couldn’t remember one about time traveling, or two worlds, but he did know that one about ghosts.

  A hiss and sizzle had him turning about and moving to the stove, where he grabbed the handle of the bubbling-over coffee pot, only to let it go again before using the tail of his shirt to protect his hand as he took a hold of the handle again and moved it to the side.

  “So this wife of Leonard’s…”

  He started for the cupboard in search of a cup as Beth started talking again, but his feet stalled mid-step. She’d stood up, was now pacing back and forth near the table. Regardless of everything going on in his head, he grinned. He’d never had any experience in loving until he’d met her. That had been unbelievable too.

  Everything had been so perfect right from the start. A late onset of winter had allowed him to set the house foundation before the ground had frozen, and the men he’d hired from town had framed it up and set the walls before the first snow had flown. He’d helped, but not much during that time, having been up in Billings for weeks on end, courting Beth. By the time they’d married, the outside of the house had been completed, leaving him and Beth to work on the inside during the colder winter days.

  He’d moved the stove from the little cabin into the house, for both heat and cooking, before the wedding. It had been fine for the cabin, but too small to heat the entire home, which had meant they did a lot of cuddling in their bed upstairs. Those days and nights had been so full of joy and love. And hopes and dreams and promises.

  He’d promised her a new stove, and the timing to provide it had been perfect too.

  In the few months he and Beth had courted, and been married, he’d come to appreciate her family, and loved them in parental sense, and was thankful they, in turn, had accepted him so fully. Had accepted how Beth moved away from them to be with him in Cody. He’d worried about that at first.

  His mother had died giving birth to him, and her family had blamed his father, blamed him for being a half-breed and for moving her away from them. Their bitterness had turned into a battle of wills, which his father had lost. He’d been only a few months old when his father had left him with his mother’s parents, who’d raised him, and tried to force their hatred upon him.

  He’d never wanted that kind of misery imposed on anyone, or to see families separated. When Beth had said she’d like to go visit her mother, he’d readily agreed. It was a short trip, little over a hundred miles. He’d traveled it numerous times himself and figured she’d be safe. It also had provided him the opportunity to surprise her with her new stove.

  “Janice.” Her pacing brought her closer. “Leonard’s wife’s name was Janice, I don’t think I mentioned that, and she was a real piece of cake, Edith’s words, not mine.”

  She stepped closer to him, and sweat popped out on his forehead. He’d seen her earlier but hadn’t noticed her. As in what she was wearing. Blue pants again, this time they were rolled up at the cuffs, showing a good section of her ankles and shins, and her feet were covered with clunky white shoes with laces. The pants fit her as tightly as the ones yesterday, like a second skin, but it was once again her shirt that had his blood beating against his skin.

  The shirt was white, and rather than sleeves, narrow strips barely covered the tops of her shoulders. Loose-fitting, and short, the bottom of her shirt stopped above the waistband of her britches. The thin, white material billowed and bounced as she walked, giving him a glimpse of her flat stomach and belly button.

  His mouth went dry. He remembered that belly button. Remembered tickling it. Beth was extremely ticklish. His fingers curled into his palm as more memories assaulted him. He’d done more than tickle that belly. He’d kissed it. Every inch of skin surrounding it. Every inch of her.

  Another groan built in his throat, and this time he couldn’t stop it from emitting.

  “Janice, you see, was mad when Riley inherited your place and told everyone about it. She claimed if anyone should inherit your place, it should be her and Leonard.” The tiny hum that she’d barely heard stopped Liz right there.

  She sighed heavily. Telling Rance all this seemed like a good idea this morning, but actually telling him and thinking about telling him weren’t settling the same way inside her. Essentially, it made her feel rotten. She’d never felt that way before. This way. It wasn’t as if she considered herself cold-hearted, she just never allowed herself to care enough to get involved. ‘Where there’s caring, there’s hurt.’ Vivi Anne had said that last night, along with time having no boundaries, only moments that were either acted upon or not. That all could be true. Especially the caring part.

  It was all so confusing. And strange.

  Of course, talking to thin air didn’t help, especially when she could feel him. A distinct vibration had come alive inside her as soon as she’d stepped in the house. Similar to the one she experienced when looking at him in the mirror. Was her intuition getting stronger?

  “Are you still listening?” Scanning the room, her attention fell on the stove. Focusing on it, she moved closer. Yesterday, the stove had looked brand new. She’d swear her life on it. Today, now, it looked…used. Still in very good condition, but not untouched like yesterday.

  As she laid a hand on the top of the stove, a hum sounded, and the mirror appeared before her face. She grasped the handle with her free hand.

  “Hot.”

  She’d obviously caught the very end of what he was saying.

  “I said, don’t touch that. It’s hot.”

  “No, it’s not.” Her stomach gurgled again at the solid differences between his time and hers. “Not in my time.”

  “Well, it is in mine. Don’t touch it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m afraid you’ll get burned.”

  He had the most expressive eyes. Dark, dark, brown with the tiniest bits of gold when she looked close enough, long enough. There was more about his eyes. Something unique and powerful. She’d never encountered it before. Yet, deep down it felt as if she had. As if his eyes were familiar, and that at one time she’d been able to read them. Know what he was thinking.

  That idea wasn’t frightening, but it made her heartbeat increase. In fact, it did something to her entire insides. It had her core temperature rising in a very unique way. A womanly way.

  “Is it warm in your time? Here in the kitchen,” she clarified. “Is it warm?”

  “Yes, there’s a fire in the stove.”

  She lifted her hand off the stove. The little buzz in her head said the heat in the room wasn’t the reason she felt flushed. “Maybe we should open the door.”

  He stared at her in length. So long a tiny quiver rippled her shoulders. There were other reactions inside her too, things she understood. Leave it to her to be attracted—seriously attracted—to a man she could never have.

  She fully understood his meaning when he said, “We both know opening the door won’t help.”

  They stood facing one another. Each touching the mirror that hung between them. The air, whether it was separated by a century or not, was so charged Franklin could have discovered electricity all over again. She bit her bottom lip to keep it from quivering and drew in a breath so shaky her lungs rattled. She’d heard of this, seen actors pretending to be drawn to one another so uncontrollably they couldn’t s
top themselves. But she wasn’t an actor, and even if she was, he wasn’t real. Not real enough to kiss.

  Her heart landed in her throat as he leaned forward. Liz closed her eyes and held her breath as the charged vibration between them grew stronger, and stronger.

  Tingles of anticipation washed over her.

  But there was nothing more. No pressure. No meeting of lips. No kiss.

  A wave of regret, of disappointment, of why me, why now, was so great she wobbled and grabbed the stove to hold her upright.

  As her equilibrium returned, he whispered, “Let go of the stove, Elizabeth. Hold your hand up.”

  Drawing a fortifying breath, she did so, copying how he held his up. She watched, as did he, as they both slowly brought their palms closer. Her fingers trembled. It may have been her imagination, but it was as if a halo, a faint golden light, formed around their hands as their fingertips grew so close they should be touching. Yet weren’t. Or were they? Her fingers vibrated, and heat spread up her arm.

  Their eyes met, and the smile on his face was about the most wonderful, and dangerous thing that could have ever happened to her. The heat generating at her hand, running up her arm, hit her heart, where it pooled and then spread out into a radiance that went deeper and deeper inside her.

  “Can you feel that?”

  Convinced there was something there, she nodded. “Yes, can you?”

  “Yes. It’s as powerful as ever.”

  “What is?”

  “Our love.”

  Chapter Seven

  Liz was once again at the table, sitting down, and had gathered her nerves together as much as humanly possible. Rance was sitting there, too, holding the mirror with one hand while drinking coffee with the other.

  She hadn’t verbally denied what he’d said—love—but she couldn’t believe it. There had been something there, between their hands, around their hands. A gentler version had settled in the air, but it couldn’t be love. Her hand still vibrated, still tingled with heat, even though it had been several minutes since she’d dropped it to her side and moved to the table. The lingering effects on her heart were still there, too. But that could be fear or confusion. A person couldn’t just suddenly feel…Love. That was impossible.

  He wanted there to be something there, something more than a simple connection, but she couldn’t lie to him. Couldn’t pretend to feel love. She didn’t want to disappointment him either. Which is why she’d let go of the mirror. He had been disappointed though. She’d seen it on his face before he’d let go of the mirror and disappeared. And that caused an unusual sense of anguish.

  Emotions weren’t her thing. Few things evoked any kind of a reaction inside her. She attributed that to her past. Being raised in a foster home. Though the Walkers had been good people and she’d mourned their deaths when that had happened, she’d never really felt as if she belonged with them. She figured without a family of her own, a place she’d truly belonged, she’d never learned to love, or care a whole lot about most things, most people. It seemed to make sense and provided a solid reason as to why she didn’t believe in love. Why she’d never wanted to feel deeply toward another person—nor have someone feel that way about her.

  Until now.

  But she couldn’t belong with him. In his time. And he certainly couldn’t belong in hers.

  He took sip of coffee. She couldn’t see the cup, except in the mirror. Another oddity. All of it, her compassion for him, the comprehension of their physical separation, the years of time separating them—even though they sat at the same table—should impress the impossibility of all that, and the importance of what she needed to tell him.

  It didn’t.

  In part.

  She still had to tell him, and would, but she certainly didn’t want to. The outcome left a bitter taste in her mouth and turned her stomach queasy. She’d never claimed life wasn’t fair. Hadn’t cared enough to. But she did now, and this wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair. None of it. He and his wife should have lived a long and happy life together.

  How could meeting someone—in this case a ghost—make someone question all they’d ever known about themselves?

  “So.” He broke the heavy silence surrounding them. “This wife of Leonard’s, why did she think I should will everything to her?”

  Liz traced a finger along the image of his jaw in the mirror, glancing up when she knew he was watching her. Leaning back, she drew a breath. It had changed her. He’d changed her because none of this had seemed so difficult, so heart-wrenching last night. She exhaled. “Because she insisted Robert, the third son Nan and Cliff raised, was actually the child of their niece. A woman named Cindy.”

  “Cindy? Cindy Franklin from Cheyenne?”

  “Yes.” Regret weighed heavy inside her. “You know her.” It wasn’t a question. The future proved he knew her, but a girl could have hope, and she was a girl.

  “Yes, I know her.”

  So much for hope.

  She couldn’t swallow past the thick lump in her throat. Why was this happening to her? She’d taken the job at the antique shop because she’d been laid off and didn’t have anything better to do. No, that wasn’t exactly true. She’d hoped Vivi Anne’s special powers would help her discover her own past. Fill the void that had lived inside her for as long as she could remember. Her life, not knowing who she was, had left her searching around all sorts of corners.

  “I met her yesterday. The wagon I heard when we were upstairs, when you disappeared, that was Nan. She’d brought her niece out to get a horse.”

  “I didn’t disappear.” Her instant justification was futile, for it certainly didn’t matter.

  “You did in my time.” He met her gaze in the mirror. “I got rid of them as soon as possible, but the house was empty when I came back in. You were gone.”

  “Nate arrived right after you left.” Frustration filled her. “I had no choice but to leave. He doesn’t want me out here without his knowledge.” Her gaze went to the stove. The now used-looking stove. It had been brand new yesterday. Brand spanking new.

  “Why?”

  She shrugged, still staring at the stove, questioning if it had changed or if that too was in her head. “He’s afraid I’ll steal something.”

  He muttered something under his breath. “It’s my house, my things, if I say you can take something, you can.”

  A definite pain stung her chest. “No, it’s not your house. Not in twenty-eighteen.” Last night, while talking with Edith and Les, several things had crisscrossed her mind. Everything from having the old house moved into town, to finding a way for it to stay right where it was, but lived in by generations of his off-spring. That second idea was the one she’d gone with last night. The one that now twisted her insides into a knot so tight her stomach burned.

  Maybe Edith’s coffee was the cause of that. It had been rather strong, and she hadn’t bothered to eat any breakfast. She’d started calling Lou to open the gate shortly after waking up. And had continued to call him every five minutes until he’d finally answered at quarter after seven. That’s when she’d told him, in answer to his grumbles, that no one else in town would help him when it came selling off things from the Rocking L and he’d better be at the gate in fifteen minutes.

  She’d never been so passionate about something before, and had amazed herself with the threats she’d made, but she’d never taken this kind of a stake in anything before. Surprisingly, that didn’t scare her. Not in the least.

  It had taken Lou thirty minutes to arrive at the gate. She’d informed him that would not happen tomorrow. Then, because she’d been on a roll, she’d said she’d call him this evening, when she was ready to leave, and that he was to inform Nate of that. She truly didn’t care whether either of them had other plans or not. Today, she would not be leaving until she said it was time.

  On her way out of town she’d stopped at a convenience store and purchased a box of granola bars, a bag of dried fruit, and a few bottles of water
so she wouldn’t need to leave for nourishment. She questioned running out to her car to get something right now. It might help her stomach.

  However, the pained looked on Rance’s face quelled that thought. The desire to lay a consoling hand on his arm had her squeezing the mirror handle harder. Even though she’d felt a connection when they’d held up their hands up earlier, actually touching him, lying a consoling hand on his arm, was impossible. No matter how badly she wanted to do just that.

  She glanced at the mirror and frowned. Just like the stove, the sterling silver around the glass had lost some of its luster. It now had an aged patina about it.

  “It is my place, my ranch, in nineteen-o-one,” he said, sounding somewhat hollow.

  Reminded of what she’d learned last night, she nodded. “Yes, it is, and there is a way to make sure it still is yours in twenty-eighteen.”

  “I’ll be dead in twenty-eighteen.”

  She bit her lip until it hurt. “But your decedents won’t be.”

  A shine flashed in his eyes briefly before he closed them. When he opened them again the pain she noted was so strong her heart clenched. For a second she feared it had stopped beating right then and there and might never start up again.

  “I don’t have any decedents, not immediate ones.”

  Her heart was still working because each beat stung. “Yes, you do,” she said so softly she barely heard herself.

  He frowned, and bitterness filled his glare.

  “The baby that Nan and Cliff raised, Robert, who was really their niece’s son…” She had to let the burning air out of her lungs. “Was also your son.”

  “Like hell!”

  His shout had made the windows rattle. He’d disappeared, too, but the hum banging against her ear drums said he was still at the table—or nearby at least. In her mind, she’d imagined him jumping to his feet.

  With patience and a compassion that was new to her, she waited until the vibrations died down. “I can’t see you when you’re not touching the mirror.”