“Damn, is that a horse and buggy that guy’s driving?” Jackson pointed further down the street. “Y’know, there’re no cars anywhere, Tom. I haven’t seen a single vehicle.”
Tom had noticed, and it didn’t make him feel any better about the place.
They walked on, apprehension growing, reading the crudely painted signs on the front and sides of buildings they passed.
Dominion Avenue, an ornately carved wooden street sign indicated. Alberta Mercantile Company, another read, painted in white letters on the side of the store. They stopped and gaped at the array of goods in the small window. A woman’s dress, black, floor-length….
Even Tom, who had little idea of what was fashionable in women’s clothing, could tell it was a style from a century ago. There was a bowler hat, shiny high-topped boots, and several mine lanterns of the same antique sort they’d seen---was it yesterday? At the Interpretive Center.
“The whole place is a bloody museum,” Jackson concluded, immense relief in his tone. “That’s what this is. It’s some ghost town they’ve fixed up like a museum, same as the ones we saw down in Tennessee. It’s probably another part of that Interpretive Center that your Miss Lawrence never got round to telling you about.”
But Tom knew for certain Evelyn would have mentioned something like this. Apprehension built in him as they passed other businesses, all of them antiquated by a sort of modern standards.
A shudder ran down his spine. “Jackson, look there. This town’s named Frank. That sign over there says Frank Drug Store, and over there, Frank Barber Shop.”
The smell of frying bacon and the enticing odor of coffee came wafting from a building who sign said Palm Restaurant, Meals At All Hours.
“The hell with it, Tom, I can’t figure it out and I’m fed up tryin’. Besides, I’m damned nearly frozen and hungry as a bear. Let’s go get something to eat.” Jackson headed, limping heavily, for the restaurant door.
Blessed warmth enveloped them as they stepped inside. About a dozen men were seated at round tables covered with red-checkered cloths, drinking coffee from thick white mugs and eating from plates stacked with eggs, bacon, pancakes, and toast. The only woman in the room was the waitress, a buxom, ruddy-faced woman of about forty.
There were antique light fixtures on the ceiling from which emanated pale electric light. But there was no music playing from any radio, no morning news, no television set stuck up in a corner.
There was only the buzz of men’s voices, and even the sound of their conversation faded as Tom and Jackson stood dumbfounded, staring at the scene and being stared at in turn.
The room smelled of hot bacon frying, of tobacco smoke, coffee, stale sweat. The peculiar oily odor of burning coal fire came from a flat-bellied stove in a corner, a heaping bucket and a small shovel beside it.
There were framed pictures on the walls that would have brought a fine sum at an antique auction, and ornate lace curtains covered the small windows.
Tom could only think that it was like walking onto a movie set, a movie set in much earlier times.
Even the gaping men looked different from Tom and Jackson, roughly dressed in overalls and sturdy work clothes, their caps dangling from their chair backs. Many were puffing on pipes. Some had handlebar moustaches, and two wore suits of a cut and style that Tom had never seen off a movie screen. It was plain to him that their clothing and their haircuts were both from a much earlier era, and again apprehension roiled in his gut.
The woman’s skirt came to her ankles, which were encased in sturdy high-topped black boots, and her white shirt was high-necked and long-sleeved. She wore a voluminous red apron. Her brown hair was gathered into a puff on top of her head from which strands were escaping, and her shiny face bore not the slightest trace of makeup.
She broke the tension their entrance had created. Blowing a wisp of hair out of her eyes and waving a hand at Tom and Jackson, she said in a cheerful tone, “You gentlemen looking for some breakfast? Sit yourselves down over there, why don’t you?”
She indicated an empty table near the stove and they walked to it, removing their coats and hanging them on the wooden chair backs. They were uncomfortably aware that the men were still staring at them, taking in their close-fitting denim jeans, the bright red sweatshirt Jackson wore that proclaimed “Life is a Beach.” His clump of long blond hair particularly drew their eyes, tied as usual at his nape with a leather thong.
The waitress arrived with two steaming mugs of coffee. She, too, looked at them curiously, but she also smiled in a friendly fashion. “You’re new around here. Welcome to Frank. You want the breakfast special? Bacon, eggs, hash browns, sausage, toast,” she reeled off.
“Sounds good,” Tom agreed.
Jackson, who habitually flirted with any waitress, fourteen to eighty, simply stared at this one, a deep, puzzled frown creasing his bruised forehead.
“Me, too,” he finally said in a subdued tone.
She moved away, and he leaned close to Tom, his elbows propped on the table, his eyes flitting around the room. “Would you tell me what is going on here? I swear we’re in some sort of time warp. No television, no radio, no jukebox. And get a load of this crowd. I’ve never seen so many men smoking. You’d think they’d never heard the health warnings. They’re givin’ us the once-over, and they’re the ones who look like they’re wearin’ costumes for a play or something. And yet I’d bet my ass they’re not actors.”
Tom knew they weren’t. He shuddered and took a long, welcome gulp of the strong coffee. The heat from the stove washed over him in waves, and combined with the strangeness of the scene the stress of the past few hours, he began to feel groggy and totally disoriented. He took another swallow of his coffee.
Maybe the caffeine would jolt his brain into action, so that something would begin to make sense.
“Here you go. Now get yourselves around that. You look half frozen.” The waitress set two loaded platters in front of them, frowning at the clotted blood on Jackson’s forehead.
“What’d you do, fall off your horse?”
“Fell off somethin’ or other,” Jackson muttered, not meeting her eyes.
“Nippy out there this morning, ain’t it?”
“Freezing,” Tom agreed, searching for a way to make sense out of all this. “Is it always cold here at this time of year?”
“Couldn’t say for sure,” she remarked, her hands on her hips, her head cocked to one side. “We just came West last September, me and Willy, just before the official opening of this here town, so I don’t know much about springtime in these parts. Back East, though, April’s likely to be unsettled, so it’s prob’ly the same out here. Although it sure seems as if the snow’s gone early, so that’s a blessing.”
She shifted from one ample hip to the other, took a deep breath, and settled in for a chat. “Now you take two years ago back home, that was a proper mess if ever I seen one. Snowed right on into June, started again in September, hardly had no summer at all. Folks blamed it on the turn of the century, said it affected the weather, but I don’t hold none with that.”
“Turn of the century?” Jackson’s voice held none of its usual bravado, and his hawk-like features had lost most of their perpetual tan. “Turn of what century?”
She looked puzzled for a moment, but then she laughed loudly and whisked a dismissing hand in Jackson’s direction. “You’re a right caution, ain’t you, Mister? Pretending not to know we’re in the 1900s now.”
1900s?
“Please, miss, what’s the exact date?” Tom’s throat felt constricted, and his voice sounded strange to his own ears.
She turned her attention from Jackson to Tom, frowning. “Why, it’s April twenty-ninth, of course. Where you fellows been?”
Tom cleared his throat before he could speak. “And the year?”
“The year?” She gave him an incredulous look. “Land sakes, it’s nineteen hundred two.” She edged away until she was several feet from them, eyeing them both
suspiciously. “Have you gentlemen been drinking spirits and pickled your brains that you don’t even know what year it is?”
1902. Jackson had turned so pale Tom actually thought he might pass out. His own lips felt numb, and there was a buzzing in his ears. “Thank you, ma’am,” he managed to say, and was grateful when she moved away, turning back to give them a long, considering look before she hurried into the kitchen.
1902. They were in the town of Frank, in April of 1902---April twenty-ninth, exactly a year before the Slide. Tom felt as if he’d been gut-punched, and from the stunned look on Jackson’s face, it was obvious he felt the same. Their eyes met across the plates of food and Tom saw his own incredulous disbelief mirrored in Jackson’s gray gaze.
He swallowed hard. “Well, partner, you were right about the time warp,” he finally managed to croak. He lifted his coffee and took a long draught, feeling as if his throat were going to close up on him. “Somehow we got fired back in time. Like in the movies, only for real.”
“That’s not possible, is it?” Jackson slumped back in his chair, dazed and shocked. “How can that be possible?”
Tom shook his head. “I don’t know. I only know it seems to have happened.”
The waitress appeared at their table again with a huge enamel coffeepot. “You want more coffee, gentlemen?” She eyed their untouched plates of food. “Somethin’ wrong with the breakfast?”
“No, it’s fine. We just haven’t gotten around to eating yet.” Tom lifted his fork and made a stab at an egg, but his appetite was gone.
“Where you gents from, may I ask?”
Tom caught Jackson’s eye. Together, he and his partner had faced gunfire, foreign wars, drug dealers, storms at sea, and once even found themselves in an old Cessna running out of fuel 20,000 feet over the French Alps. In every desperate situation, Jackson’s cool was legendary. Not once, not even in a crisis, had Tom seen his partner totally lose control, but at this moment, Jackson looked as if he might be on the verge of hysteria. A muscle twitched beside his mouth, and his eyes were wild.
Insane laughter began to build inside of Tom. Where were they from? He struggled to answer the waitress’s questions with something approximating the truth.
“We’re from out of town,” he said in a strangled tone. “Travelers, we’re travelers.” Time travelers, the hysterical voice in his brain proclaimed.
“You plannin’ on staying here in Frank? Mines are workin’ full time. There’s usually jobs to be had underground.”
“No.” The word exploded from his lips, and he saw surprise and shock on the woman’s face at his vehemence.
“No, actually, we’re planning to move on as soon as we can,” he amended in a more reasonable tone. “We’re… just looking around.”
God Almighty, was there a way to get back? There must be. They’d have to find it. He and Jackson had been in tight spots before, plenty of them, and they’d always managed to escape, Tom assured himself. They’d do that this time, too. Damn straight, they would.
Jackson seemed to be recovering from his initial shock. He swallowed hard and held his coffee cup out to the waitress. “I’ve let this get stone cold, ma’am,” he said with a poor facsimile of his usual flirtatious grin. “Any chance of a hot refill?”
“Sure thing.” She took the cup and bustled away.
“Well. Guess we might as well eat,” Jackson said, sprinkling pepper on his food and then taking a huge mouthful of potato. “Way we’re goin’ today, no telling how many years it’ll be till our next meal.”
Tom grinned and lifted his own fork, grateful to have his partner’s humor restored at least. For several moments they chewed and swallowed in silence.
They were almost finished with their food when the door to the restaurant opened and a man came in. He wore a Stetson, a snug-fitting distinctive red coat, breeches, and highly polished knee-high boots.
“Holy hell, it’s a Canadian Mountie, in full dress uniform,” Jackson murmured in awe. “First one I’ve ever seen duded up like that off a postcard.”
“His jacket’s a little short,” Tom remarked. “And get a load of that side arm.”
The policeman’s eyes swept over the room; then his attention zeroed in on their table. He walked over slowly, his leather heels clicking on the wooden floor, his dark mustached face somber under the down-tilted brim of his Stetson.
“Morning Officer.” Tom looked up into steely blue eyes and a stern face.
“I’m Constable Liard, North West Mounted,” the policeman announced in a formal tone. “I must ask you men to identify yourselves.”
Tom’s heart sank. A look at their wallets was going to confuse this officer no end. He’d be willing to bet there weren’t any bank cards, photo drivers’ licenses, or Social Security numbers in this era. He reached around to get his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, and in one swift movement the Mountie drew his gun, a vintage Colt 44. He pointed it first at Tom’s head and then at Jackson’s.
“Put your hands where I can see them, and get to your feet.”
“What the…What’s this all about, Officer? Jackson, his eyes narrowed on the gun, got up slowly. Tom saw the Mountie’s eyes drop to Jackson’s belt, checking for weapons.
“You, too, on your feet.” The command came in a clipped, officious tone and the gun moved momentarily toward Tom. “Now, nice and slow and easy.”
Tom did as he said, very careful not to make any sudden moves.
“Now, keep those hands where I can see them and move over to the door, real slow.” The cumbersome-looking gun was still pointing at first one of them and then the other.
“Our coats…” Tom jerked his chin at their jackets, tossed over the chair.
“Andy, you bring those coats along. I want to look in the pockets before they put them on.”
A short man at a table nearby jumped to his feet, toppling his chair in his eagerness to do the policeman’s bidding. He gathered up Tom and Jackson’s jackets and followed them to the door.
If their entrance had commanded almost everyone’s attention, this exit topped it. Several more of the customers were now standing, excitement plain on their faces, obviously willing and able to help Constable Liard should the need arise.
Voices rose and questions flew.
“What’d they do, Constable?”
“Who are they?”
“You want us to come along until you get to the barracks, ’case they try and make a break for it?”
The Mountie shook his head, centering his attention on Jackson and Tom as they sidled between tables and moved toward the door.
“They was talkin’ pretty crazy, and they didn’t pay for their breakfast yet, Robert,” the waitress sang out, poised halfway into the kitchen with an armload of dirty dishes. “They owe me fifty cents each.”
“I’ll see they pay, Gertie,” Liard promised, herding them out the door.
Tom shivered as the door swung shut behind them, and the cold air sent icy blasts through his sweatshirt and jeans.
“Where are your horses?” Liard glanced up and down the street, then led them to a sleek brown mare tethered to a hitching post a few yards away.
“Horses?” Tom shook his head in bewildered frustration. “We don’t have horses, for God’s sake. Look, this is all a big mistake, Officer. What are you arresting us for, anyhow? Don’t we at least have the right to know why you’re arresting us?”
“Two men answering your description robbed the bank in Pincher Creek in the early hours of the morning,” Liard pronounced.
“Damnation.” Jackson rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Well, it wasn’t us. I promise you, we aren’t bank robbers, and we weren’t anywhere near this Pincher Creek place, not this morning, not ever.”
“What are your names?”
“I’m Jackson Zalco and this is Thomas Chapman.”
“Give me an account of your whereabouts last night,” Liard demanded.
Tom and Jackson looked at one another
, knowing that if they told the truth, there was no way on earth this young constable was going to believe it.
Tom tried to think of how they could prove who they were and where they had been last night, but it seemed impossible.
“Look, we’re not even Canadian citizens,” he tried to explain. “We’re Americans. We’re just visiting in this country.”
The Mountie was singularly unimpressed. “Bank robbery’s illegal on both sides of the border, gentlemen. If you can’t give an account of yourselves, I have no choice except to arrest you.”
A horrible thought struck Tom. Was lynching a common thing in Canada in this early part of the century?
He wondered how much cash Jackson had on him. Tom had a couple of hundred. Would they have enough between them to hire a good lawyer?
Was there such a thing as a good lawyer at this end of the century? Was there any lawyer at all in Frank in 1902? If by some miracle there was, and they didn’t have enough cash, would he accept a charge card?
“We’ll talk at the barracks,” Liard said. “Andy, let me see those coats.” He went through all the pockets, pulling out Tom’s ring of keys and frowning at them. With equal puzzlement, he studied an unopened package of tissues from Jackson’s pocket, as well as a stick of gum and a dispenser of breath mints.
At last he handed their jackets over, and Tom and Jackson gratefully put them on.
“It’s a bit of a walk to the barracks.” Liard unclipped handcuffs from his belt and cuffed Tom’s right hand to Jackson’s left. From a saddlebag, he withdrew a length of lariat and swiftly tied one end to the handcuffs and the other to his saddle.
“We’ll go at a good brisk pace so you don’t get too cold,” Liard promised with a grin. “It’s only about a quarter of a mile.”
He mounted and clicked his tongue to the horse.
In another moment, Tom found himself herded down the main street of Frank like any common criminal in an outdated Western video, his wrist hooked tightly to Jackson’s.
Now and Forever: Time Travel Romance Superbundle Page 66
