Diamond in the Dust (Second Chances Time Travel Romance Book 3)

by Peggy L Henderson

  “I don’t know what time machine you’ve landed in, John Wayne, but if you think what I’ve got on makes me look like a call girl, it’s safe to assume you’ve never been down Hollywood Boulevard on a Friday night.”

  Morgan glanced at her shirt, a pink tank top with spaghetti straps, and she wore a bra underneath. Her cutoff jeans shorts weren’t exactly short shorts. No one would consider her clothes ‘indecent,’ or even provocative, unless he was some kind of pervert.

  What was she supposed to wear when it was a hundred degrees outside? The heat must have fried this guy’s brain when he got dumped in the desert, or maybe it was the beating he’d received.

  “You got me mistook for someone else, ma’am. My name’s Gabe McFarlain.”

  Morgan stared up at him. He was being one-hundred percent serious. There wasn’t the slightest hint on his face that he was playing with her.

  “Well, Gabe McFarlain,” she said after sucking in a deep breath, “don’t go around accusing me of being some hooker because I choose to wear shorts on a hot day.”

  “I wasn’t implyin’ you’re a workin’ girl,” he said. “I was only askin’ if you’d be more comfortable covering up in the company of a strange man. I meant no disrespect. I just ain’t used to seeing . . .” He didn’t finish his thought, and frowned. Anger and frustration blazed in his good eye.

  Morgan studied him. She mentally shook her head. What to make of this guy? He talked like he was straight out of some classic western movie. She’d always heard that real cowboys were extremely polite, but his insinuations had thrown her off balance.

  How do you even know he is a cowboy, Morgan?

  “Where am I?” he finally asked, his eyes traveling throughout the kitchen. The anger disappeared, replaced by a dazed look, as if he couldn’t make sense of anything. Hopefully he wouldn’t pass out again right here on the kitchen floor. Maybe she needed to call an ambulance, after all.

  “A little hole in the middle of nowhere called Hinkley, just outside of Victorville.” Morgan held a chair out for him. “Sit,” she ordered, her eyes on his. “I can’t pick you up off the ground if you fall.”

  A frown passed over his face, and he stood there for at least another minute before he lowered himself into the chair. She smiled. He sure didn’t look like he wanted to take orders from her, but apparently realized he was in no condition to argue back. Definitely a tough guy, not one of those whiney men who turned into babies whenever they got a splinter in their finger.

  “Can I get you something to drink? Water? Ice tea?” She raised her brows expectantly. The guy stared up at her, most definitely not happy about his circumstances.

  “Got any coffee? Or whiskey?”

  There was a slight hesitation at the second question. Morgan held his gaze.

  “No, sorry, we’re fresh out of whiskey,” she answered sarcastically. There was no way she’d give this guy any alcohol, not that he was the type to settle for the wine coolers Ashley kept in the fridge.

  “I’ll make some coffee, though,” she added quickly. She could definitely go for a cup herself. “It’ll only take a minute to brew.”

  Heading for the counter, she stuffed her pepper spray back in her pocket, then reached for the coffee pot and filled it half-full with water from the faucet. Pouring the water into the coffeemaker, she retrieved a fresh filter and the can of coffee from the cupboard next to the stove.

  “While that’s brewing, would you like a warm compress for your eye?” She turned to face him again. Her breath caught in her throat. His eyes were glued to her, filled with layers of anger, uncertainty, and that same confused look she’d glimpsed the night before. What had happened to this guy?

  Morgan didn’t wait for his response. She pulled a clean dishtowel from a drawer, and held it under the faucet until the water turned hot. The swelling around his eye required heat rather than ice at this point. Inhaling a breath for courage, she approached him.

  “A hot compress will help with the swelling. I’ll get you some ibuprofen, too. I bet that eye hurts.”

  Tentatively, she reached her hand out, and held the hot towel over his eye. He flinched slightly, and stared up at her suspiciously.

  “Got any raw meat?” he asked, leaning away from the towel.

  “Are you hungry?” Morgan shuddered at the idea of eating raw meat.

  “For the eye,” he said gruffly.

  Her brows rose. “You want to put raw meat on your eye? I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” Morgan studied him for any hint that he was kidding. He acted as serious as he had when he suggested that she put on ‘decent’ clothes.

  “It’s always helped before.”

  Her eyebrows shot up fully. “You get beat up like this a lot?”

  He shrugged. “Been in a fight once or twice.”

  “Well, I don’t have any raw meat, at least none that isn’t frozen, so I guess you’ll have to settle for the hot compress. Some chamomile tea bags might work well, too, or some witch hazel. I read about it on the internet last night, since you refused to let me take you to a doctor.” She glared at him, one hand on her hip. “Now, hold this over your eye, and I’ll bring you a cup of coffee.”

  She held the towel against his face again, and this time he remained still. His hand reached up, and his calloused fingers grazed hers before she pulled away to let him hold the towel over his eye. Adrenaline shot through her veins at the slight touch, and she held her breath for a second. She met his hard gaze, unable to read him.

  “I’ll get that coffee,” she stammered, and headed for the counter.

  Get yourself together, Morgan.

  Her hand shook slightly when she poured coffee into two mugs. “Do you want cream or sugar?” she called over her shoulder.

  “Black,” he grunted. Somehow she knew he’d say that.

  Adding sugar to her own coffee, she returned to the table, set his mug in front of him, and pulled out a chair.

  “My name’s Morgan Bartlett,” she said, unsure of how to start a conversation with him. Would he tell her anything about what had happened to him? If he was a criminal, he’d most likely lie to her.

  He looked at her, then removed the compress from his eye. “Morgan? Like the horse?”

  Like the horse? What was he talking about?

  She laughed to cover up her surprise. “I think this is the first time someone’s compared me to a horse.” She glared at him. “Or made insinuations that I’m a strumpet. Must be my lucky day to get two such flattering compliments in one conversation.”

  His lips twitched slightly, and a hint of a smile spread across his bruised face, transforming his features instantly. There was something roguishly handsome about his battered face, and his tousled jet-black hair that fell over his forehead. Morgan stared at his upturned mouth. What would he look like when he really smiled or laughed, and when all that swelling was gone?

  “My apologies again for the remark, and I wasn’t comparing you to a horse, ma’am, just your name. A Morgan is a type of horse. They’re sturdy and tough, and can handle quite a workload, but are fast and agile enough to race.”

  “I’m not familiar with horse breeds,” she said. “And I highly doubt my parents named me after a horse.”

  “You were talking about horses to your son,” he reminded her.

  Morgan’s eyes narrowed. How long had he stood outside her bedroom before she’d become aware of him?

  Their eyes locked for a moment, then he lifted his coffee mug. He held it in front of his face, and studied it for a moment. Slowly, he raised it to his lips. When he set it back on the table, he looked straight at her.

  “I appreciate what you done for me last night. I hope your husband don’t mind that you took in a complete stranger.”

  Morgan was about to correct him that she wasn’t married, but stopped before she blurted the words. Maybe it was a good thing if he thought she had a husband.

  “I couldn’t just leave you out there to die,” she said quiet
ly. “I’m not trying to be nosy, but can I ask what happened to you? Is there someone I can call?” she added hastily before she lost her nerve to ask.

  The anger in his eyes was back instantly, and his knuckles turned white as he gripped his coffee mug. The softness in his features vanished, and his mouth hardened into a tight line.

  “I can understand if you don’t want to talk about it. Even if you’re running from the law, the person or people responsible for your condition are also going to face criminal charges.”

  Gabe laughed bitterly, then he leaned forward. “What year is this, Mrs. Bartlett?”

  Morgan coughed, choking on the coffee she’d just sipped. She set her mug on the table, hot liquid spilling over the side.

  “Year?”

  “What year am I in? What century?” He stared at her intently from across the table.

  Morgan laughed nervously. “I think I do need to call for an ambulance to take you to the hospital, Gabe. You might have a concussion or something.”

  Gabe’s fist came down hard on the table, and he nearly leapt to his feet. “I ain’t touched in the head, woman,” he said forcefully. “Unless I’m stuck in purgatory, I’m somewhere in the future. What I want to know is, what year is it?”

  Morgan eased her chair back, and slowly rose to her feet. Her hand reached for the pepper spray in her pocket. Where was her cell phone? In her haste to get Gabe out of her bedroom, she’d left her phone on her nightstand. This guy was psycho.

  Keep him talking, Morgan. Play along and see if he’ll calm down.

  “This is the twenty-first century. The year is 2014,” she said as calmly as she could muster. “Would you like to tell me where you’re from and how you got here?”

  Gabe looked at her like an angry dog ready to attack someone. Not out of viciousness, but rather out of desperation for feeling cornered and afraid.

  “I was meant to hang at dawn yesterday morning. The year was 1872. When I woke up, it was dark and hot. I thought I’d arrived in hell.” He stared straight at her. “Then you appeared.” He turned away from the table, and ran a hand through his hair. Abruptly, he faced her again, the intensity in his eyes boring into her.

  “Do you know a woman named Laney Monroe?”

  Morgan blinked, and her knees went weak as an unexpected jolt of adrenaline surged through her. She mentally shook her head. No. It had to be coincidence.

  “No, I’ve never heard that name,” she said. “What else can you tell me about her. Where does she live?”

  “Her surname was Goodman,” he added hopefully.

  While he spoke, Morgan’s mind raced, trying to come up with an excuse to go to her bedroom to get her phone. Unease swept through her. Never mind about her worries that this guy could be a drug dealer. He was mentally insane, and there was no telling when he would snap completely.

  That’s what you get for trying to be a Good Samaritan.

  Even while that thought lodged itself in her mind, she couldn’t shake off the feeling that there was something different about this guy. That same feeling she’d had since she’d first found him lying in the dust swept over her again now, as if she’d been meant to find him. So far, he hadn’t done anything threatening, just talked a bunch of nonsense.

  The doorbell rang at that moment, and she expelled a sigh of relief. Right now, she’d even welcome John Spencer, her mother’s P.I., with open arms. Gabe looked at her, a puzzled frown on his face.

  “Someone’s at the door. I’ll be right back.”

  Morgan darted around him to the living room, half-expecting him to block her way or pull her back, but he stepped aside to let her pass. If he was some kind of psycho killer and afraid of being discovered, he definitely wouldn’t have allowed her to answer the door.

  She pulled the front door open, and blinked in surprise. An old white-haired man, dressed like a clergyman, stood on the porch step. A wide smile lit up his face, and he held out his hand to her.

  “Miss Morgan Bartlett. I believe you have someone in your care with whom I need to speak.”

  Chapter Five

  When that strange chime rang from somewhere in the parlor, Gabe moved aside to let her pass. It was obvious that she was scared as hell of him, even if she did try and hide it. She sure had gumption, though, standing up to him and ordering him around. Women from the future seemed to have a mind of their own. It had been one thing he’d admired about Tyler’s wife. Laney had demonstrated that numerous times, and Tyler had allowed it.

  Despite the anger that consumed him over his predicament, Gabe chuckled. He shook his head. If women called the shots in this future time, how was a man supposed to keep his desires in check, especially if it was acceptable that they walked around in broad daylight wearing less than their unmentionables? Morgan Bartlett was, without a doubt, an eye-catching woman.

  To rein in his wayward thoughts, Gabe glanced around the strange kitchen. He had bigger worries at the moment than pondering his attraction to a female from the future. No doubt her husband wouldn’t tolerate him in this house for very long, and there was also the matter of figuring out how to get back to his own time.

  He stepped up to the counter, running his fingers over the smooth and foreign-feeling surface. It wasn’t made from wood. The cupboards were all whitewashed, and his eye fell to the contraption Morgan had used to brew the coffee. He touched the clear pot, then quickly moved his hand away. How was it so hot without a visible fire?

  Voices came from the other room, and Gabe froze. He gritted his teeth. Son of a bitch. Hurrying through the kitchen and into the parlor, he stopped abruptly. Morgan had just stepped aside from the front door to allow a familiar figure to enter her home. Gabe stared at the man, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. The preacher’s face brightened in a wide smile when he saw him, and rushed through the parlor.

  “Mr. McFarlain, I apologize for my delay. It took me some time to locate you. I’m just glad Miss Bartlett came along when she did and took you in,” Reverend Johnson said cheerfully, reaching out his hands to clasp Gabe’s arms, as if he’d just been reunited with a long-lost friend.

  Gabe stepped back, pulling out of the man’s grasp, his entire body tense. If there hadn’t been a woman present, he would have grabbed the old man by his white collar and hurled some choice obscenities at the preacher.

  “What the blazes did you do to me, Reverend?” Gabe growled through clenched teeth. “Why did you and Tyler send me to the future? Is this my brother’s way of getting his revenge on me?”

  The reverend’s smile and calm demeanor didn’t waver. “This wasn’t done out of revenge, Mr. McFarlain,” he said softly. “Tyler has no ill-feelings toward you. He only wanted to bring his wife home, after you forced me to send her back to this time.”

  “Then why the hell am I here?” Gabe roared, unable to suppress his anger any longer. His outburst caused his battered insides to burn, and his pulse pounded at his temples.

  “Sending you to this time enabled me to reunite Tyler with Laney. It has also saved you from hanging, Mr. McFarlain. You’ve been on the wrong path for so long, I believe it is time for you to let go of your past and find a new life in the future.”

  “I ain’t interested in a new life in the future. Send me back so I can get what’s coming to me.” Gabe advanced on the old man, towering over him.

  The reverend didn’t flinch. He stood, looking up at Gabe with those otherworldly blue eyes of his.

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Mr. McFarlain. In order for Tyler to return to the past with his wife, I had to bring you here, as well. One of you had to remain in the future.”

  Gabe swallowed as the meaning of the reverend’s words slowly sank in.

  “You’re telling me I can’t return to 1872?”

  The old man nodded. “You are correct, Mr. McFarlain. Your hatred for your father has blinded you to everything and everyone around you. Sending you here was not a decision I made lightly. By removing you from everything that has held y
ou back, I do believe that, in time, you will live up to your true potential.”

  Gabe ground his teeth, and grabbed the preacher’s shirt. He yanked the old man closer. “You had no right to meddle with my life,” he growled.

  “Gabe, no.”

  Gabe’s head snapped toward the sound of Morgan’s voice, the voice that had soothed him through the long, dark hours of the previous night. Her hand was on his arm, her eyes wide as she stared up at him. The pleading look in those soft, amber eyes reached straight to his heart.

  “Let him go,” she said softly, holding his gaze.

  Gabe cursed under his breath, and released his grip on Reverend Johnson’s shirt. The old man stepped back, and straightened his collar.

  “I’m much obliged, Miss Bartlett,” the reverend said, darting glances from her to Gabe, then back to her. An almost imperceptible gleam of triumph passed through his eyes.

  Morgan’s gentle hand lingered on his arm until he dropped it completely to his side, then she released him, and stepped back. Gabe shook off the irrational feelings that rushed through him; wanting to do whatever she asked just to please her. Hell. He’d never had such crazy notions about a woman before. Growing up with Cora, and all the ladies in her profession, had taught him to treat the weaker gender decent and respectful. Sure, he liked to have his fun with the working girls in town, but he never got emotional over a female.

  “I don’t know what’s going on here, or who you guys are, but I’d like some answers or I’m calling the cops.”

  Morgan had backed away from both him and the reverend, blocking the hall that led to the bedroom where her son slept. She glanced from Gabe to the reverend, clutching something in her hand; the same thing she’d pulled from her pocket when he’d first made his presence known to her after watching her tuck her little boy in his bed. Those odd stirrings had started even then. Gabe tore his eyes from her, looking at the reverend. Better to focus his anger on the old man rather than think about the woman.

  “Miss Bartlett, I’m sorry for the disturbance.”