by Jenny Lykins
He drew in a breath, forced himself to walk away. He would comfort her tomorrow, in the bright light of day, in the cold glare of reason, when he stood a better chance of holding himself in check, and doing nothing more than holding her in his arms.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Callen walked around in a haze of what Ty called “information overload.” The term seemed immensely accurate. Everything she saw intimidated her. Most of what she saw fascinated her, and quite a bit scared the daylights out of her.
Ty spent the morning showing her what he insisted was a normal household for his time. The telephone and the machine that answered it left her speechless, which made Ty laugh and declare that she was defeating its purpose. The flat box with the moving, talking pictures shocked her to her very core. The things the people in the pictures said and did!
Her favorite invention was the music player. The thing Ty called a stereo. The songs were so beautiful, the lyrics so poetic, she could have sat in that wonderful soft chair of his and listened to the music all day long.
She would love to take one each of the clothes washing and drying machines back to Windsor with her. Imagine, simply putting dirty laundry in, and having it come out clean and dry. What would Magnolia think?
Ty showed her his camera equipment and his amazing photographs, so real and colorful she expected them to move. She marveled at them all, but the pictures of Windsor, the ones which had drawn him back to her to begin with, left her fascinated, bewildered, devastated. How many times in life did one know in advance that the family home would burn to the ground? Could she somehow prevent it? If she did, would that change history and keep Ty from finding her? Had anyone been killed? When had it happened?
“Ready?” Ty strode down the hall, yanking the cuffs of his sleeves into place. When his gaze met hers, he stopped. “What’s wrong?”
“Wrong?” She smiled, trying to cover her disturbing thoughts. But he had studied her all day, as though he knew of the turmoil and insecurity churning within her.
“You looked upset just now.”
He came to her, pulled her from the softly padded chair and into his rock solid arms. She leaned against the warmth of his chest, reveling in his strength, in the feel of him holding her. Simply holding her.
“You okay?” he whispered into her hair, his breath a warm caress.
She nuzzled her cheek against his chest and nodded. No matter how hopeless the situation – whether going off to war or living in separate centuries – being in his arms always made things right, even if only for a moment.
He held her tight, gave her strength. She could hear his heartbeat pick up speed as her own pulse raced at his touch. She looked up at him, met the golden bronze of his gaze, the gaze that had always melted her spine with only a glance.
He gave her more than a glance now.
He stared at her, searched her soul, his head lowering ever so slowly, as if he tried to stop himself and couldn’t.
When their lips met, her blood turned to thick, hot, intoxicating wine, swirling through her veins, going straight to her head to set her world on end. He drugged her with his kisses, feeding the ache that had lived with her for so many years.
She let her hands wander. He could stop this ache.
His tongue tasted of mint and his spicy scent fanned the flames she’d tried for so long to keep banked.
“Ty,” she sighed into his mouth. He groaned, pulled her tighter against him. He wanted her. She could feel how much he wanted her.
The knock at the door left Callen wanting to scream. Ty ended the kiss, slowly, reluctantly, but still he held her. Not until the knock came again did he release her with a quiet curse and go to the door.
He swung the door open. “Melissa,” he said. A breath-taking creature walked in, reached up and took Ty’s head in her hands, and planted a quick kiss on his lips.
“Hi, handsome,” she said, then strolled into the parlor…living room…as though she were accustomed to making herself at home. When she saw Callen, she stopped and glanced at Ty.
“Melissa.” He repeated. He shut the door and raked his fingers through his hair. “This is Callen…” he hesitated, “…McCall. Callen, this is Melissa Tate, an old friend, and my housekeeper’s daughter.”
Melissa, the old friend, looked at Ty and then at Callen. She offered her hand.
“Nice to meet you,” she said as she shook Callen’s hand like a man. “McCall? Are you related?”
“It’s a…distant relation,” Ty jumped in to answer for her, clearly uneasy.
“Oh.” The beautiful creature studied Ty for a moment, then lifted a bag made of paper, dangling from twine loops from her arm.
“Here.” She handed the bag to Ty. “I was going to be in the neighborhood and Mother asked me to drop these off to you. It’s some loaves of her sour dough bread and banana nut.” She turned back to Callen with a grin. “It’s actually a poorly veiled attempt to throw me in Ty’s path. Mother is a diehard matchmaker.” She patted Ty on the cheek. “But this one’s a confirmed bachelor, aren’t you, McCall? Especially when it comes to ready-made families. Now don’t try to deny it.” She stopped Ty when he would have spoken. “You’ve never made it a secret that Dan is all the parenting you want to do.” She shrugged at Callen. “And since I have two little ones from my first marriage, that pretty much doom’s Mother’s plans.”
Callen’s heart went cold. This woman made Callen feel inferior in every way. Tall, polished, clear blue eyes, her hair cut short and sophisticated like so many of the women of this time. And not only was someone trying to arrange a marriage between this Melissa and Ty, but the news of Ty’s disdain for parenthood was like a hard slap across Callen’s face.
“Do you and your husband have any children?” Melissa asked.
Callen blinked at the reference to a husband, then Melissa glanced at the wedding ring on Callen’s hand. Evan’s wedding ring. Good heavens, she had worn a ring for so long, she had forgotten she no longer wore Tylar’s.
“I’m…” She covered the ring with her right hand. “I’m a widow.”
“Oh, I’m sor—”
“But I do have a child. A son.” Callen looked at Ty. “Connor.”
A tense moment of silence hummed in the air.
“Hey, well, thanks for bringing this by, Liss.” Ty sat the bag on a small lamp table. “Tell Celia I said thanks, and give her my love, will you?” He ushered Melissa to the door, giving her little choice to stay or leave. “Wish we could visit longer, but we were just going out.”
Melissa merely laughed – a musical laugh – and took her leave good-naturedly. Once he shut the door behind her, Ty turned and stared at Callen. He looked miserable, apologetic. Sincere.
“She’s wrong,” he simply said.
Callen nodded, but her heart sank in her chest. No matter what he said now, she must give her decisions much more thought.
*******
Ty pulled into the driveway, racking his brain for something to lift Callen’s spirits. He’d spent the evening trying to reassure her that Melissa meant nothing to him, that he would love Connor and gladly be his father. But when she’d asked him point blank if he’d said he never wanted to be a father, he’d had to tell her the truth. The fact that he’d been raising Dan long before he was ready for such a responsibility didn’t seem to excuse his statement.
Nothing had cheered her up, though she had tried to give the illusion. The movie he’d taken her to left her awe-struck. Their trip to the grocery store afterward had her wandering through the aisles wanting to sample everything, asking a million questions. When the automatic doors swung open on their way in, she’d jumped out of her skin, then tested them out three or four times. She’d asked about everything from how reflectors glowed, to how traffic lights knew when to turn, to what the billboard advertising a DNA testing lab meant that said Find Out The Father. Her curiosity had not lessened, but he could almost feel her underlying worry.
All he could do, he told
himself, was prove to her through his actions that she had nothing to worry about where Connor was concerned. Ty’s lips curved at the memory of the little guy, standing there on the overseer’s porch, asking to be swung one more time. He’d reminded him of Dan at that age.
He grabbed a couple bags of groceries – bags filled with pineapple, kiwi, star fruit, mangoes – everything that Callen had never tasted, or had only eaten at very special occasions.
When they walked through the door, Ty stopped so fast Callen bumped into him.
Dan sat at the kitchen table, eating a slice of pizza from an open delivery box.
“Dan!” Ty glanced at Callen, then sat the groceries on the table. “What are you doing home? How’d you get home? Did something happen?”
Dan looked at Ty, glanced at Callen, then his gaze wandered to everything in the room but Ty.
“I…uh…I didn’t go to the beach.”
“You didn’t go to the beach,” Ty echoed, not quite comprehending. “Then where have you been the last—”
“At Sam’s.” Dan squirmed then, like a little boy caught with a stolen cookie. “His parents went to the beach. They thought Sam was staying with us.”
Ty cocked his head, bit his tongue, fought for calm.
“I see,” he managed to say in a conversational tone. “And…” he prompted.
“I thought we were just going to hang out. Veg. You know.”
Ty knew only too well.
“But Sam started hitting some places I didn’t want to go. He was getting into some bad scenes.” Dan looked up at Ty then. “I know I’ve disappointed you lately, Ty, but even without your owner’s manual, you’ve managed to teach me right from wrong.”
Ty stared at Dan, at a loss for words. On the one hand he wanted to choke him for lying. On the other hand he wanted to give him a bear hug for walking away from the situation. He crossed to the table and slapped his brother on the back.
“I’m proud of you, Dan, for standing up to Sam and doing the right thing.” Dan let out a shallow sigh of relief. “But you’ll die a slow and agonizing death if you ever lie to me like that again.”
Dan’s shoulders slumped and he peered up at Ty, his face the picture of remorse.
“Sorry, Ty.” He looked back down at the table and shook his head. “It won’t happen again.”
You could have heard a feather fall in the silence between them. Ty let Dan suffer a few more seconds before he put him out of his misery.
“Danny boy, I want you to meet Callen.” Dan looked up. “We met at one of the locations where I’ve been shooting.”
“Hi.” Dan stood and nodded, obviously uncomfortable at such an embarrassing first meeting.
“Callen, this is my brother I’ve been telling you about.”
She glanced up at him, wrinkling her nose at his teasing jibe.
“It’s so nice to finally meet you, Daniel. And wonderful to see that everything Ty said about you is true.”
The little dickens almost smirked at her parry.
Dan mumbled a word or two of welcome, then excused himself and high-tailed it to his room.
Ty took a deep breath and lifted his arms with a shrug.
“Welcome to my world,” he said with a sigh and a shake of his head. “Love me, love my brother.”
He led her into the living room and pulled her onto the sofa next to him.“C’mere,” he said in a low, apologetic voice, then pulled her to him and tucked her under his arm. His lips brushed against her hair. “I’m sorry to put you through that,” he murmured, his breath warm against her scalp. “I know he’s just a typical teenager, but it doesn’t make it any easier. At least he had the sense to walk away.”
Callen nodded, but her nod was slow, introspective.
“Thank God that he grew to be typical,” she said quietly, then raised her gaze to meet his. “He has friends, even if they are not very good ones, and no doubt young girls interested in him. He is treated as an equal. Included.” Tears, unexpected and uncontrolled, blurred her vision before she blinked them away. “Connor will never have that. He will never be seen as anything but something to stare at and pity. No girls will pursue him for his attentions.” She looked down at her hands, meshed her thumbnails together. She had said enough. She didn’t think she would mind so much if Connor behaved as Daniel had, if it meant he would be “typical.”
Ty gathered her into his arms, then tilted her chin up until she met his gaze.
“Sweetheart, the doctors today can correct Connor’s problem.”
She went very still. Her breath froze in her lungs.
“What do you mean?” She could barely force enough air to form the words.
He smiled so gently. “Children born with that condition today have it corrected when they’re babies.”
Her pulse raced.
“In fact, I’ve only seen one person with Connor’s condition, and he was an old man. There are even groups of doctors and nurses who travel to the third world countries…the poorer countries, to do all types of corrective surgery where the children normally couldn’t receive that kind of care.”
“Surgery?” The wings that had sprouted on her heart faltered. She’d seen the affects of surgery when Windsor had been used as an army hospital. Torturous pain, incisions that often turned septic, gangrenous. Agonizing deaths. Far more men died following surgery than lived. It was said that army surgeons killed more men than did soldiers during the war. “No. No, it is not worth the risk.” She shoved away from Ty, shaking her head. “I could never allow my baby to be cut on.”
Ty took her hand.
“Callen, the risks aren’t the same as they were in your time. Medical science has advanced as much as technology. The reason no one sees children with club feet now is because the doctors correct it while they’re babies, and they grow up to lead normal lives. It’s not because the doctors do surgery and the babies die.”
“But Connor is no longer a baby. He will be five years old in September. His bones are formed. They would have to…” She could only imagine what they would have to do to her poor baby, even to attempt to correct the deformity. She could not believe such extensive measures were possible.
“I don’t know what’s involved in the corrective surgery.” Ty smoothed his hand over her shoulder. “But we can find out. I do know that doctors go into villages in Africa, South America…everywhere, and do these surgeries successfully in some of the most remote, primitive environments left in the world. And they do them on children of all ages.” He smoothed a wisp of hair from her forehead. “If you want this corrective surgery, I’ll find a way to pay for it, even if I have to mortgage the house.”
Callen lowered her face into her hands. Was it possible? Could her baby possibly have a chance for a normal life?
She pictured him running with ease, playing with friends and no one looking on with pity or revulsion. She pictured him as a young man with girls vying for his attention.
If they could successfully bring Connor to the present, could she possibly take the risk of allowing a surgeon near him on the chance that he could make Connor normal?
Could she possibly not take that risk?
*******
Garrett eased his aching body onto the porch swing, then leaned back with a sigh. There must be a storm brewing. His leg, his ribs, his wrist…every bone he’d broken when the Sultana exploded throbbed. He rubbed his thigh. The memory of waking to find himself flying through the air always came back to haunt him when his leg ached like the devil; slamming into that overhanging tree on one of the small Hen and Chicken islands nearby, dangling there like a rag doll for God knows how long, before dropping into the icy blackness of the flooded Mississippi. The only thing that had saved him was the dead limb that went down with him. He’d clung to it, half conscious, his right leg broken and useless, his left wrist equally so, a ragged, gaping gash in a cheek burning with scorched skin.
He took a deep breath of the evening air, scented with honeysuckle and fr
eshly turned soil from Estella’s kitchen garden, then closed his eyes to blot out the memories. But still they plagued him.
Lord God in Heaven, he’d never seen such a sight, not even in the worst of battles. Not even in his worst nightmares. The sky and flooded river had glowed orange from the flames of the dying Sultana. The eerie light outlined silhouettes of over two thousand heads bobbing like corks in the inky waters. Garrett had watched, horrified and helpless, as the splintered, fiery corpse of the ship floated down river toward him. Men clung to the sides of the burning hulk, only to be singed off when the wind shifted and fanned the flames over them. Screams, shrieks of pain, pleas for help from hundreds and hundreds of men filled the air. The bowels of Hell could be no worse. Garrett thought he was doomed to die when he couldn’t swim out of the path of what was left of the broken steamship, when suddenly it struck a small island, sinking with a mighty, sizzling hiss, a huge pillar of smoke and steam rising against the night sky.
“It might help if you would talk about it.”
Garrett opened his eyes. He hadn’t heard her come onto the porch. She handed him a cup of coffee and settled next to him on the swing – the only place to sit – to sip from her own cup.
“I imagine the children were asleep before their heads hit the pillows,” he said.
“You survived for a reason, you know.”
He looked up at the sky, picked out his favorite star in Orion’s belt.
“I never saw a child as excited as Mary Ella over a birthday. She seemed to like the doll cradle I made for her.”
“You survived the war. You survived Cahaba prison. Do you think it was an accident that you were one of only two or three hundred survivors from that ship, while nearly two thousand men lost their lives? God spared you for a reason.”
“And she loved your strawberry cake. You outdid yourself on that one, Estella.”
“Garrett, if you do not talk about it, if you do not at least confide what you are suffering, even if only to Rev. Reeves, then I am going to contact your family.”
