The flood of heat started in the pit of her stomach and spread outward; the dizzying volatile chemistry of him seeped into her pores and suffused her senses. Helplessly her arms went around his neck and she tasted him, she inhaled him, she soared on spirals of powerful, single-minded, all-encompassing sensation.
She had thought, in the ensuing hours, that she had read more into his kiss than there had in fact been, that imagination had embellished her memory. But it was more than she remembered. There was magic there. It was crazy and she didn’t want to believe it, she didn’t want it to be so, but she could have happily spent the rest of her life there in his arms. She could have lost herself in him, drowned in him, become him. She wanted at that moment nothing more than to do so.
It took all her will to turn her head away, to brace her hands against his chest and put distance between them. She keenly felt the absence of him, of his heat and hardness and strength in every cell of her body.
His hands were on her back, strong, slender, competent hands that caressed her from shoulder to waist, that cupped her and held her close. When she tried to step away they were reluctant to release her. She could feel his heat again, could hear the deepened pace of his breathing even above the roaring of her own blood in her ears. It was with a very great effort of will that she turned and made herself step away.
The imprint of his touch seemed to linger long after his hands trailed away. Houston actually felt a chill where his hands had been. She hugged her elbows unconsciously, trying to mitigate it.
After a moment, he said quietly, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“You didn’t do it alone,” she said.
He was only a few feet away. Close enough that she could hear the soft, slightly uneven whisper of his breath. She tightened her fingers on her arms.
“This is going to sound crazy,” she said. “If you knew me better you’d know how crazy it sounds. But that first day I saw you, in the meadow, it was as though—well, you looked familiar to me. As though I’d seen you before. Since then, it’s almost seemed…inevitable between us.” She searched his eyes, silently begging him to understand. “I just wanted you to know that I wouldn’t behave like this with just anyone, that I’m not coming on to you because you’re a good-looking guy and you’re convenient and I’m alone. I don’t mean to be coming on to you at all. This is very confusing.”
His hands slowly closed into fists at his sides. His eyes were shadowed with pain. “Houston,” he said hoarsely, “I’m leaving.”
She stared at him. The impact of his words hit her a moment later like a punch in the stomach.
He continued stiffly. “I’ve behaved badly. I never meant for you to think… It was never my intention to stay for more than a week or two. I should have told you that.”
Why was she surprised? What an idiot she was. She knew better. That was what made her angry—not that he had betrayed her; he was just a man and he owed her nothing. He barely even knew her. But she had betrayed herself.
God, what a fool she was.
Mark clattered down the steps, caught the kitchen door frame briefly, and called, “Hey, Mom! I’m going outside to wait for Dad!”
She tore her gaze away from Quinn, but Mark was already gone. The screen door slammed.
Quinn looked for a moment as though he wanted to do something or say something more. In the end he merely dropped his eyes and said quietly, “I am sorry.”
Houston answered, “So am I.” And she turned away.
After another moment, Quinn left the room.
He closed the front door quietly behind him and picked up the canvas bag he had left on the front porch, swinging it over his shoulder. Mark was sitting on the steps, dressed in a blue suit, with his hair neatly parted and his shoes polished. He looked around when Quinn came out.
“You going someplace?”
Quinn nodded. “I have things to do down the road.”
Mark seemed unsurprised. He turned away with a shrug. “I didn’t figure you’d last long.”
“Why do you say that?”
His eyes were on the road ahead, watching for his father’s car. “You’re not the type.”
That hurt. There was no reason it should have, but it did.
Quinn started down the steps. He lifted his hand to touch Mark’s head or clasp his shoulder but changed his mind. He said instead, “Goodbye, Mark. It’s been a pleasure knowing you.”
Mark did not look up. “Right. See you around.”
Heloise the cat jumped up on the rail, arched her back and made an annoyed sound in her throat. Quinn said to her, “Goodbye.”
She sat down on the rail and stared at him until Quinn dropped his eyes.
Settling his bag on his shoulder, Quinn walked down the drive, past the apple tree, to the highway. He did not look back.
Chapter Six
Quinn loved twentieth-century motel rooms. He loved the smell, and the antiquated climate controls and the old-fashioned plumbing. He liked to sit in the restaurants and listen to conversations, or watch people come and go from his window. Tonight he would spend in a motel room. But try as he might he couldn’t work up any sense of anticipation for what was coming up next. He couldn’t stop thinking about what he had left behind.
It occurred to him that he was losing his spirit of adventure.
He had, of course, every reason to be downcast. He was all alone in a strange land, and the possibility was growing stronger every day that he would die here. He wasn’t afraid of dying. He had faced death more than once over the years and had always emerged the victor. What he was afraid of was dying before he ever learned how to live.
The way he had behaved with Houston was unconscionable, of course. Some might argue that he had not technically made love to her and that the restraint he showed in not doing so demonstrated a certain amount of moral fiber. But in his position, in the broader ethical sense, there was little difference between a kiss, a seduction and a marriage—none were permissible, none were honest, none were right.
In the early days of time travel there was a great deal of heated debate by amateurs about the consequences of intervention in the past, among which was the possibility of a man siring his own grandfather—which was of course absurd. Some still thought that the strict code of ethics that governed the behavior of Travelers had its origins in those debates, but the truth was much simpler.
It required a lifetime of excellence, dedication and preparation to even be considered for the program. The screening process was stringent, the training arduous and the sacrifices severe. As a result, the Travelers were an elite, rarefied few, admired by many, envied by some, scrutinized by all.
Psychological weaknesses were one of the first things screened for, and that screening continued throughout a Traveler’s career. Tendencies toward greed, megalomania or promiscuity were only a few of the reasons a man might be immediately refused license to travel, for any one of those weaknesses indicated a lack of self-control and a strong likelihood of developing ulterior motives for traveling back in time.
There were far too many acceptable ways to satisfy sexual urges in his own time. Any Traveler who attempted to impose his needs on a woman outside his own century was beneath contempt.
The strongest credo of a Traveler was to interfere with nothing. Their function was to observe, not participate. What kind of damage might have been done to the lives of Houston Malloy and her son had Quinn stayed, feeling as he did? What damage had he already done?
But perhaps more important, what had happened to him to make him behave in such a fashion? Where was his sense of duty, of self-control, of pride in his profession? Who—or what—was he becoming?
As the afternoon shadows grew longer and the rhythm of his stride became a comfortable counterpoint to the whoosh of traffic that moved past him on the highway, Quinn’s thoughts took a more and more maudlin turn. He was growing obsessive, he knew. He didn’t seem to be able to stop himself.
The
first kiss was understandable, he supposed. Not forgivable, but understandable. His was a unique situation: he was stranded in time, faced with unsolvable problems and the very real possibility that he would never go home again…. A certain amount of disorientation was inevitable.
But today, after Houston had made it clear to him that his indiscretion had affected her deeply, he should have been alarmed, self-chastising, apologetic. He was all those things. But he was also pleased.
When he saw the flush on her cheeks, the light in her eyes, when he heard her stammering words, he realized that whatever her words might protest, he had affected her as deeply as she had him. Never before had he shared so singular an emotion with another human being. Even if what they shared was nothing more than surprise and confusion, it was, for him, a profound connection. And that was why, knowing it was wrong, knowing it went against every principle he stood for, he could not leave today without tasting her again, without sharing, in his own way, that one last moment of purest emotion.
And even now, having kissed her was not what he regretted.
The green highway sign said Carsonville, 4 mi. He should be there by the dinner hour, in plenty of time for an interesting evening of watching and listening, absorbing the ambience of the times while he mulled over his own problems.
Later he would begin investigating the major cities that would serve his purposes and choose a destination.
Quinn could operate a twentieth-century automobile in an emergency, but the rules and regulations governing their use on the roadways continued to baffle him, so driving was never his first choice of transportation. He did enjoy trains, though, and the gritty realism of being cramped into the thin metal compartments of an airplane several miles above the ground was an experience that simply couldn’t be duplicated in his century. He would probably take an airplane to his next base. Unfortunately, there was no faster method of transport in this time.
Over and over he had pleaded his case for more attention to be devoted to finding a way of extending a Traveler’s safe time in the past. Three weeks was simply not enough time in this slow-moving world, he had argued. And what if there was an emergency?
Well, now he had an emergency. Perhaps his untimely loss would speak more eloquently than his words had ever done of the need for more research in this area.
Carsonville, four miles. He would make some decisions then. He would, that was, if only he could keep his mind from dwelling on the mistakes of the past.
If only he could convince himself that the time he had spent with Houston had been a mistake. Because right now it felt as though the only thing he had done wrong was leave her.
He heard the sound of a vehicle approaching behind him and stepped over to the shoulder of the road and turned to watch it pass. It was a blue pickup truck, and as it approached it slowed, drawing to an idle beside Quinn. A man with a sunburned face and red baseball cap leaned out the window.
“Car trouble?” he inquired.
With most of his attention still on the house he had left behind, Quinn didn’t immediately make the connection. “What?”
“Need a ride to town?”
“Oh. Yes. Thanks.”
He moved toward the truck and put his hand on the door handle. Town. A motel. Tomorrow, an airplane. It was the sensible thing to do. It was the only chance he had to get home again, to put things right. He opened the door.
But what if the only thing he had done wrong was to leave her behind?
Three hundred years from home, maybe the only rules that applied were the ones that worked. Maybe this time he would have to make his own rules.
“You getting in?” the driver asked.
Quinn glanced back the way he had come. He looked ahead.
“No.” He closed the door. “I guess not.”
Some of the best decisions he had ever made had been on impulse. He could only hope this would prove to be one of them.
HOUSTON SLAMMED DOWN the receiver, biting her lip to hold back the curses. Mike still didn’t answer his phone. He had obviously forgotten his date with Mark.
She wanted to hit something, to kick something. Instead, she closed her eyes tightly, took a deep breath and made her hand release the telephone receiver. She walked to the front door and looked out onto the porch.
There was her son, sitting on the steps in his blue suit, waiting for the father who had forgotten about him. He had been sitting there for more than two hours, watching every car that went down the highway. The part of Houston’s heart that wasn’t filled with impotent fury was breaking in two, flooding her chest with tears.
Damn you, Mike, she thought. And then, irrelevantly, Damn you, Quinn. Both she and her son had been betrayed today, by different men and in different ways. A son couldn’t help trusting his father. But Houston should have known better.
She came outside and sat beside Mark on the step. She wanted to draw him into her arms and hug him hard but knew that would be unacceptable. She looped her arms around one knee and focused on the empty highway, consumed by her own helplessness.
After a moment she asked, “What do you say we go for pizza?”
Mark shot her a defensive look. “He could still come.”
Houston swallowed hard but said nothing.
Mark’s shoulders sagged. “But I guess he’s not, huh?”
Houston answered gently, “It’s pretty late, Mark. Something important must have come up.”
“He could have called.”
Houston had no answer for that.
Mark shrugged. “He just forgot. No big deal.”
Houston managed a smile and squeezed his knee. “Right. No big deal.”
Mark started to get up and then stopped. “What’s that?”
Houston followed the direction of his gaze.
Dusk was deepening and it was hard to see, but a form seemed to be detaching itself from the shadows at the far end of the driveway and moving toward them—a form so familiar that Houston’s heart started to beat faster even before she recognized it.
Mark said, “It’s Quinn.” The heaviness left his tone. “I thought he was leaving.”
Houston said with difficulty, “So did I.”
“Something must have happened.”
“I guess.”
She watched him draw closer, pack slung over one shoulder, stride long and easy, gaze steady. Her heart was pounding now. She wasn’t glad to see him. She wasn’t.
But when he reached the bottom of the steps and just stood there, looking up at them, she couldn’t even speak, so many emotions were tangled up inside her.
Mark saved her. “Hi, Quinn.”
“Hi, Mark.”
It was difficult to determine in the dimness, but it seemed he was looking at Houston.
“You’re back,” Mark observed.
“Yes.”
“Forget something?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“You staying?”
He looked at Mark, and the silence before he answered was meaningful. “For a little while.”
Mark considered that. “We’re going for pizza. You want to come?”
“Thanks. Sounds fine.”
Mark stood up. “Think I’ll go change.”
The screen door closed. They were alone.
Quinn didn’t come up the steps or even put down his bag. After a moment, he said, “I thought Mark was having dinner with his father.”
Houston answered. “We were both stood up today.” Her voice was surprisingly steady.
“You’re angry with me.”
“Yes.” Angry, confused, elated, hurt, hopeful… Was there any emotion she was not feeling for him at that moment?
“I won’t stay if you don’t want me to.”
“Why did you come back?”
He let the bag slide to the ground and came up the steps. He sat beside her, not deliberately close, but the step was narrow and their knees almost touched. She could smell his scent, warm and sun soft, like the
end of a summer day.
He sat looking straight ahead, his hands loosely linked between his knees, and for a moment he said nothing. Then he said, “I’m not really sure. I think it was a weakness of my character.”
She made a mirthless sound in her throat. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“Maybe it was just that—I felt needed here. I’ve been a lot of places and I’ve done a lot of things, but I’ve never felt needed before. I’ve never felt as though my leaving would make a difference.”
“Well, you’re wrong,” Houston said sharply. “We don’t need you.”
He looked at her. “Maybe I need you. And Mark.”
She met his eyes in a moment of confusion and uncertainty, then looked away.
He said, “I was out of line before. If you’re worried I’ll try to force my attentions on you again, I won’t.”
A half dozen replies formed in her head, but in the end sheer curiosity overcame the hurt and resentment and defensive pride she was feeling. She stared at him for a moment. “What is it with you? You show up here out of nowhere with no background or visible means of support, you fix my car, you put new shingles on the roof, you come on to me, you apologize, you walk out on me, you come back…”
She trailed off, exasperated.
He answered, “I wish I could explain.”
“Maybe it’s better you don’t. I’m not feeling too happy with the male gender right now. I’m in no mood for lame excuses and rationalizations.”
A faint smile softened the corners of his lips. “I wish I had a rationalization to offer you.”
She drew a breath. “So. I’m supposed to just take you back in, just like that.”
“My rent is paid until the end of the week,” he reminded her.
Houston smothered a smile. “You’ve got me there.” She glanced at him. “Any idea how long you’ll stay this time?”
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