by Tamara Gill
Anna opened her mouth to speak, and he held up his hand. “I need to have a word with you, Miss Devlin.” Then he turned to Grayson and Laura, making it obvious he intended for them to leave.
Once the two had left, he narrowed his eyes at Anna. “You are not my deputy marshal. If Arnold can’t help out, then please send a Western Union to Hickok over in Abilene and see if he can dispatch someone to come to Denton for a day or two to tend to things.”
“Very well,” she sighed.
Wes immediately went on alert. She’d given in much too easily, and her soft-spoken demeanor didn’t fool him for one minute.
***
Anna picked up the bowl of soup, spooned out a bit, and held it to his lips. “Here. You told Laura you would eat her soup, and chicken soup is good for the flu.”
Wes turned his head away from her. “What I really want is to be left alone.”
She studied the back of his head, the sweat drenched strands of dark hair curled over his neck. Something shifted inside that set her heart to pounding. Even flat on his back, and miserable with the flu, his nearness caused her body to react. She fought the urge to comfort him, take care of him. “Wes.”
He turned toward her.
“I’ve had the flu before, so I know how miserable you feel. Why don’t you try to get out of bed and I’ll change your sheets? Then I’ll heat up this soup. I promise that will make you feel a little bit better.”
“No. I don’t want you to catch this blasted thing from me and end up sick. Just go. I’ll take care of myself.”
Anna stood and straightened the twisted sheets. “No. I’ve had my flu shot, so I’m good. Let me help you.”
“Flu shot?”
“Er . . . yeah.” She shifted her glance toward a large wardrobe across from the bed. “Is that where you keep the clean sheets?”
“Don’t change the subject. What do you mean by a flu shot?”
“Nothing.”
His warm hand reached out and grasped hers. “Sit down.” He tugged with remarkable strength for a sick man. “I’m probably far enough out of my mind right now to believe anything.”
Anna clenched and unclenched her hands. The time had come to face her dilemma head on. Yet, a sense of relief swept over her at the thought of finally unburdening herself. Not that Wes would be able to help, but at least one other person beside her could appreciate the bizarre situation she was in. With a deep breath, she looked into a pair of curious, yet sympathetic eyes, and her heart melted.
When had she started to feel more for this man than was smart? They were from different times, had different values and experiences. What was considered perfectly acceptable in her time was downright scandalous here and now. And what if she could never get back?
Curious how that thought no longer brings the jolt of panic it once did.
“Tell me.” His voice was low and soothing, as if he spoke to a frightened animal.
She shook her head, the brief sense of relief vanishing, leaving her unable to form the words that would make it all real. Speaking of it would give the entire tale credence, stripping her of any illusion that her predicament was a dream.
His thumb moved back and forth over her knuckles. “Anna? Talk to me.”
She chewed her lip and her eyes darted back and forth. “If I tell you, promise you won’t think I’m crazy?”
“I already think you’re crazy.”
“Yes, well, that’s probably true.” She straightened her spine and took a deep breath. “I was born in nineteen ninety.” When he continued to stare at her without changing expressions, she added, “One hundred and twenty years from now.”
Either she’d shocked him into silence or the flu had taken away his hearing. She squeezed his hand. “Say something.”
“Go on.”
She swallowed a few times. “I was traveling back from visiting my aunt in Kansas when I stopped at an Indian store and met a strange woman with a tattoo on her neck who seemed to know all about me, even though I’d never laid eyes on her before.” The sentence all came out in a breathless rush.
Wes nodded encouragingly.
“I was going through a difficult time. The week before, I’d caught my fiancé cheating on me−with my best friend, I might add.” She shot him a glance. “I mentioned I was a police officer, which is not exactly true. I left the department when my partner sexually harassed me. A hearing is scheduled in little over a week from now to determine whether I get my job back. And the only employment I could get−as a bounty hunter−sucked.”
His eyebrows disappeared under the damp curls on his forehead. “‘Sucked?’ What kind of expression is that? And what do you mean he ‘sexually harassed’ you?”
“It means he tried to force me to have sex with him.”
“He raped you?”
“No. He kept suggesting it, and he touched me too often.” She sighed. “It’s difficult to explain, but I wasn’t comfortable working with him.”
Wes’s lips tightened, and his hand fisted in the sheets.
She gestured in dismissal. “Anyway, this Indian lady told me to go find a ‘peace chair’ behind her store, and sit there. I did−and fell asleep. When I woke up, everything was different. After wandering around in confusion for a while, Slug and his stagecoach almost ran me over.” She sat back, releasing his hand. “And you know the rest.”
Wes studied her for a minute, and then asked, “You’re telling me you traveled through time?”
“See, it’s a good thing you already think I’m crazy. Now I’ve just confirmed it.” The smile she attempted didn’t quite make it. Unable to sit still, she jumped up and retrieved the bowl of soup from the table. “I’ll heat this up for you, and be right back.”
***
Wes watched the perplexing woman flee the room, soup sloshing over the edge of the bowl as she hurried away.
The future.
Had he been most people, he’d likely be thinking about having Doc Oliver find a place to lock her up for her own safety. But the history he’d learned from his mother’s Potawatomi family had instilled in him an appreciation for the unknown, the unexplainable. Given his heritage, the fact that it was an Indian woman who’d sent her here seemed fitting.
His Irish father, a longtime trading partner with the Potawatomi, had been granted permission to marry the beautiful Sings Like Angel when his mother was barely sixteen years of age. Shortly after his birth, she died of white man’s fever, leaving a heartbroken Mike Shannon to raise his only child.
Each summer Wes and his father traveled from their winter home in the mountains to the Potawatomi camp. There, Wes learned the ways of the tribe. Every night after the last meal of the day, he would join the other children in a circle around the fire and listen to tales from the elders. Dozens of stories of unusual happenings and mysterious legends left him with a deep respect for things that had no reasonable explanation. Added to that the tales from his father of faeries in Ireland, and he’d been convinced from an early age to accept things most people would not.
Anna’s story would certainly answer a lot of questions. The clothes, her speech, her ideas about women. With the way she’d shot Big Ben in the back and brought down the cowboy, the future must be a very scary place. Didn’t men protect their women anymore? He rubbed his forehead, the pain shooting through him a stark reminder of his own problems.
“Here’s your soup, nice and hot.”
“Put it down, and come here for a minute.” Wes reached his hand out, attempting an encouraging smile, but Anna looked as if she would bolt any minute.
“You need to eat, and I have to change your sheets, and . . .”
Despite his discomfort, he shifted to his side, and crooked his finger.
She blew out a deep breath. “You think I’m crazy, huh?”
“Sit down, Anna. I’m having a hard enough time focusing, without having to bend my very sore neck to look up at you.”
“Sorry.” She placed the bowl on the table an
d sat in the chair.
“I’m half Irish and half Potawatomi.”
She tilted her head and frowned. “So, that means . . .”
The dizziness was getting to him, so he’d better get this over with fast. What he wanted more than anything was to sleep. Today wasn’t the best day for dealing with confessions.
“It means I was raised believing that strange, unexplained things happen. Whether this is true or not doesn’t matter because you believe it, and despite what I said, I don’t think you’re crazy.”
The long speech depleted whatever stores of energy he had left. “Now please leave me to die in peace.” He shifted to his back and closed his eyes.
Anna laid a cool palm on his forehead. “You’re burning up again.”
“Hmm.” He heard her from a great distance as sleep called to him.
***
Anna took in his features as they relaxed into slumber. Her heart clutched while she smoothed the curls back from his forehead. Now that he’d told her of his heritage, she easily saw both the Native American strength of his face, and the curly hair of his Irish father. His long, thick eyelashes lay against his lightly tanned skin. His parents had made a handsome son.
His quick acceptance of the wild tale she’d told him still rocked her. When she’d first figured it out, she’d keeled over like a swooning Victorian heroine. Wes took it in stride as if he ran into time travelers on a regular basis.
Of course, his rising fever could have made him believe he was hallucinating. Once he awoke from a nice long nap, he’d probably send for Doc Oliver to see that she was locked away in some nineteenth-century loony bin.
If only she had some modern medicine, she could help him. Oh, but for a drug store with shelves of cold and flu remedies. But perhaps she could relieve him by cooling his body down.
After scouring the kitchen, she came up with a large pan and several clean cloths. Her neglected arm muscles got a workout pumping water into the pan that she carefully carried down the hallway to Wes’s bedroom.
The sheets were twisted around his legs and he thrashed on the bed. She set the water down and studied him for a minute. She really should take off his clothes and wipe him down. Her nerves fluttered at the thought. In her time a woman stripping a man down to cool his fever wouldn’t be a major problem, but in 1870, she’d be scorned as a harlot, only fit to work for Miss Ethel, should anyone find out.
She shrugged. Who would know? He’d sent everyone home; it was just the two of them. He was in a deep sleep. Gingerly, she unfastened his shirt buttons, slowly revealing his broad chest lightly sprinkled with dark hair. The amount of hair increased as her nimble fingers neared his navel, eventually forming an arrow pointing straight to his groin.
Anna sucked in a breath and blew it out through clenched teeth. This man didn’t spend time at a gym; his lifestyle kept him in shape. Unable to resist, she stroked the soft hairs on his chest, peeking at his face to assure herself he wasn’t watching her with that grin he loved to flash.
Unfolding the cloth, she dipped it in the cool water and spread it over his chest. He flinched and mumbled something she couldn’t understand. His muscles rippled under her palm, causing her mouth to dry up as effectively as a wad of cotton. Although she tried to keep her touches and glances professional, the sight of his six pack abdomen had her panting like some fool dog waiting for a treat. Several small scars on his chest appeared to be knife wounds, but nothing that would have been life threatening.
Another dip, and she wiped his chest and neck. The heat from his body warmed the cloth immediately. What she wouldn’t give for some aspirin. Amazing how something so ordinary in her time was so far out of reach here.
She dropped the cloth in the pan and after pulling the sheet up, returned to the kitchen for fresh water. An old-fashioned coffee pot sitting on the black iron stove caught her eye. A quick glimpse inside showed remnants of Wes’s morning coffee, so she slid the pot over to the back burner where a small fire still burned. While she waited for the coffee to warm, she crossed her arms and leaned her hips against the wooden counter. Having taken all her meals at the café since she’d arrived, this was her first chance to really study an 1870s kitchen. Amazingly enough, it appeared quite comfortable.
The stove took up almost an entire wall, which led her to believe it was used as a way to heat the house as well as cook. The room itself was small by modern day standards. But packed into its tiny space were shelves, counters, and a good-sized table and chairs. An alcove off the room had an array of burlap bags filled with coffee beans, flour, sugar, dried beans, and oats. Mason jars of fruits and vegetables, probably gifts from the women of the town, lined one whole shelf. It appeared the marshal ate well.
Pushing aside her musing, she grabbed a chipped blue china cup from one of the shelves and sloshed the dark liquid in. A quick search turned up a bowl of sugar cubes and a small tin of milk.
Balancing the pan and her coffee, she returned to the bedroom. Wes hadn’t moved, but his face was still flushed from fever. She took a quick sip from her cup and winced. Lord, these people didn’t know how to make decent coffee.
She laid her palm against Wes’s forehead. It appeared his fever was even higher. Whipping the sheet off, she tossed it on the floor and again wiped him down. After fifteen minutes of bending over his bed, she placed her hands on her lower back and stretched the sore muscles.
If this was going to be effective, she had to strip him completely, and do his whole body. Before she could talk herself out of it, she eased his shirt off his shoulders, and down his arms. By tugging both sides, she managed to get it to his waist, where she yanked it out from under him.
Taking a deep breath, Anna unfastened his pants and pulled the soft wool down, revealing his powerful body, inch by glorious inch.
Oh my.
Her eyes fixed on the bulge snug inside his drawers. The length was indeed manly−even at rest. She continued her perusal to the fine dark hairs covering his strong legs, the muscles well-developed from years of straddling a horse. She wiped her forehead with the cloth in her hand, but it did nothing to cool her body. Or slow her heart rate.
Stop it. The man is sick with the flu and a raging fever and you’re ogling his body like some brainless buckle bunny.
She grabbed the cloth and dipped it in the water, feeling a bit ashamed of herself. How would she like it if the tables were turned, and he’d stripped her down to her bikini panties and lacy bra?
Oh God, I shouldn’t have thought of that, either. I’m so bad.
Her hands finally stopped shaking long enough to run the cloth over his entire body. She placed the pan on the floor and then promptly stepped on it, spilling water on the crumpled up sheet she’d tossed there earlier.
Shaking water off her boot, she examined the wardrobe, which did hold more sheets. At least she could cover him with a clean one, and after he awoke, she’d insist he get out of bed so she could change the one covered with his sweat. She tossed the wet sheet on the chair by the door, and scooping up the pan, headed to the kitchen.
“Hello, marshal?”
Anna nearly jumped five feet when a loud voice sounded from the front doorway. A man with a cleric collar stood in front of her, two older women holding covered dishes behind him. All three smiles faded as they took in her appearance. Anna glanced down at herself. The top of her dress was soaked and plastered to her body. Either cold or terror had made her nipples stand at attention, poking through the material like two bullets. Her hair was falling down around her shoulders, and without a doubt the flush she could feel creeping up her face completed the wanton look.
She groaned under her breath. Then a jolt of panic hit her as she remembered the very nearly naked Wes in the next room. Her eyes widened as the small group moved forward, heading toward the bedroom. Moving faster than she’d ever done in her life, she slid in front of the man and smiled. “Can I help you?”
“Who are you?” One of the women, with a stout body, iron
gray curls, and pursed lips, glared down her nose and sniffed.
“I’m Anna Devlin.” When no one spoke, she continued, “I’m a friend of the marshal.”
“Indeed,” the scrawny, pointed-chin woman flanking the preacher’s other side spoke.
“Yes. And I’m here to help.”
“I’ve never seen you in church.”
Oh, God. She was in trouble now. She attempted a smile. “Well, I haven’t been here very long, you know, still settling in.”
“The Lord doesn’t care if you’re settled or not.” The preacher peered at her over the top of his spectacles. “In any event, we’re here to offer comfort to the marshal.”
Water sloshed from the pan as she shifted it to put her arm out to stop him. “He’s feeling poorly. Still has a fever, and . . . asleep. Yes, he’s asleep. So if you would like to leave whatever it is you brought,” she gestured toward the offerings the ladies held, “I’ll be sure to see he gets it.”
I’m babbling like an idiot.
The reverend turned to the two women. “You wait here, and I’ll just take a quick look at him. I’m not sure it’s a good idea for you ladies to enter a bachelor bedroom.” He narrowed his condemning eyes at Anna, and started down the hall.
She scooted around the ladies and raced after the man. “I really don’t think you should disturb him.” She tugged his jacket sleeve, but he continued on.
“Nonsense, young lady, I’m just going to say a prayer over him.”
“I prayed already. Lots of times.” She wrung her hands, her voice shrill and panicky. “Especially now.”
He rolled his eyes, then turned and entered the bedroom. Anna covered her face with her hands, peeking through her fingers like a small child at the scary part of a movie.
Then she moaned aloud as the preacher backed out, his jaw slack and face as white as the sheet she wished she had thrown over Wes.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Reverend David Preston closed his worn prayer book and flashed a grim smile of satisfaction. “You may kiss the bride.”
