It's About Time

by Charlotte Douglas

  “But there’s always the chance he’s right. If another time shift does occur, would you go back with me?” He placed his hand over hers on the wheel, and for an instant she wondered if she could bear never feeling his touch again.

  “Is this a proposal?”

  His head snapped up, and he tightened his grip. “In a manner of speaking.”

  Her face flushed with pleasure and a rush of powerful affection until memories of Jill and her mother came to her rescue. “I don’t belong in your time. Not only would I never see my sister again, but I couldn’t fit the 1890s expectations of women.”

  “You’d exceed anyone’s expectations.” Admiration colored his voice.

  She shook her head in denial. “I’m too self-sufficient, independent. Businesses in your day are owned and run by men for men. Do you know anyone who’d hire a woman to run their advertising campaigns?”

  He said nothing but removed his hand from hers.

  They rode on in silence interrupted only by the steady beat of the country station on the radio and the nasal twang of Conway Twitty. Traffic thinned and the road narrowed to two lanes, leaving the congestion of Valdosta behind for mile upon mile of slash pines, broken only by placid lakes filled with moss-draped cypress.

  “This detour must be taking us the long way round,” he complained.

  “Unless I missed a turn back in Valdosta.” She wouldn’t be surprised. His almost-proposal had rattled her. “We’ll stop at the next gas station and ask directions.”

  The narrow highway stretched on through uninhabited forest and wetlands. As the miles passed, she could feel Rand’s tension building again beside her.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t delay us on purpose. Would you rather I turn around now and retrace the route through Valdosta?”

  He pointed ahead to an ancient sign by the road. “Potts Store is only a mile. Stop there and inquire.”

  Within minutes she pulled into the gravel parking lot of a ramshackle building with fading paint. A rusted Dr. Pepper sign covered one side of the precarious structure, a post supporting the front overhang sagged, and peeling posters from a long-ago county fair flanked the screen door.

  He gave a low whistle. “Beautiful.”

  “Huh?”

  She shifted her gaze from the dilapidated structure to a shining chrome and metal motorcycle, the only other vehicle in the lot, while Rand surveyed the machine with the look of a starving man.

  She reached across him and withdrew a map from the glove compartment. “I’ll get directions. Sure you don’t want something to eat?”

  At the mention of food, he tore his gaze from the giant cycle, opened his door and followed her into the gloomy interior of the store.

  As her eyes adjusted to the faint light, she observed tall shelves, jammed so closely together she had to turn sideways to sidle down the aisles. Layers of dust covered most of the merchandise.

  He gathered up a bag of potato chips and a package of Ding-Dongs.

  “Check their expiration dates,” she warned, turning over a package to demonstrate. “Looks as if most of their inventory was here when Sherman passed through on his march to the sea.”

  She approached a tiny, grizzled woman behind the counter.

  “Let me know if y’all don’t find what you need.” Snuff, packed inside the woman’s lower lip, muffled her voice.

  Tory opened her map and spread it on the counter. “We must have missed a turn back in Valdosta. What’s the quickest route to I-75 south?”

  “Oo-whee,” the woman exclaimed with a grin. “Y’all are sure enough lost. You’re headed due east.” She stuck a shriveled finger at the map. “You best go on into Homerville and pick up 441 south. It’ll connect you with the interstate at Lake City.”

  While Rand reimbursed the woman for his purchases, Tory took her bearings from the map, then drew a diet soda from an ancient cooler that clattered and banged like a mariachi band and paid the clerk. “Thanks for your help.”

  “Y’all come back,” the woman called as Tory exited the store, squinting in the blinding light of the noonday sun. She popped the tab on her cola and drank thirstily.

  Rand deposited his package in the car and stood admiring the giant Harley. “A magnificent machine. What wouldn’t I give for one of those?”

  The awe in his voice made her smile, remembering the adage that the only difference between men and boys was the size of their toys.

  “Want to make a trade?” a raspy voice behind them asked.

  She turned as a burly man dressed in black leather let the store’s screen door slam behind him. He grinned at her as he picked his yellow teeth, glancing first at her, then at Rand, who’d ceased the study of the bike when the man spoke.

  “No, thanks. Just looking.” Rand crammed his hands in the back pockets of his jeans and gave the motorcycle one last covetous glance before opening the driver’s door of the Toyota for her.

  As she moved toward the car, the muscular man shot out a ham-size hand and grabbed her roughly by the wrist.

  “I’ll make you a good deal,” he called to Rand. “Your car and your old lady for my hog.”

  She attempted to twist away, but the man held her fast.

  “Let the lady go.” Rand’s voice, deadly calm, snapped across the parking lot.

  “Think it over, man. You can always get another car, another broad.” He jerked his head toward the bike. “But a custom-built machine like that one...”

  She caught a glimpse of the man’s dark, dilated pupils and wondered what drug he was high on. Stifling her rising hysteria, she spoke as calmly as she could. “It’s my car, not his. Just do as he says and let me go.”

  Rand moved closer to them and the biker pulled a chain from his back pocket, twirling it until it circled his knuckles. The links glinted in the sunlight.

  “Keep your car then,” he sneered at Rand. “But your old lady is coming with me.”

  “She doesn’t want to.” Rand pulled his hands from his pockets and moved a step closer.

  The man threw back his head and laughed, filling the air with the rancid stink of his breath. “What she wants ain’t got nothing to do with it.”

  “Let the lady go.”

  She shivered at the menace in Rand’s voice. Couldn’t her captor hear it, or had drugs scrambled his hearing as well as his reason?

  The biker dragged her closer.

  Rand held up both hands, palms outward, and approached the biker. “All right. Let’s talk. I might be willing to consider a trade after all.”

  She stared at him in disbelief. If he was bluffing, he gave no sign. The biker’s grip tightened on her arm.

  Behind her, the screen door slammed again. Glancing over her shoulder, she spied the clerk, standing on the steps of the building, nervously tugging a faded sweater over her shapeless cotton dress.

  “Sanford Potts,” the old woman called. “You been eating them mushrooms again?”

  “Shut up, Ma,” he yelled. “Go back inside and mind your store.”

  “What about it, Mr. Potts?” Rand stood just a few feet away, cool and contained in the noonday sun.

  Tory could see herself and Potts reflected in the mirrored surface of Rand’s sunglasses, but she couldn’t see his eyes. She searched for signs of tension in his body, anything that might give her a clue to what he intended, but his powerful arms hung loosely at his sides and he distributed his weight lightly on both feet. If she judged by his body language, he could have been discussing something as trivial as the chance of rain.

  Hell, she could wait all day for him to rescue her. She reached behind with her left foot, hooked it around the biker’s ankle and yanked with all her might. With a howl, the heavy man tumbled into the dust, breaking his hold on her as he fell.

  She sprinted for the car, past Rand, who stepped between her and the man on the ground. Potts shook his head like a wounded bull, wiped a meaty fist across his flushed face, then bellowed with anger. In an instant,
he was on his feet, charging his considerable bulk head-on toward Rand.

  “Run,” she screamed. “Get in the car!”

  Rand held his ground as the human battering ram bore down on him. Then, so quickly that if she’d blinked, she’d have missed it, Rand’s right fist shot forward, catching Potts on the nose, lifting him off his feet, then dropping him into the dirt.

  “You done killed him!” the old woman screeched, running on bandy legs toward her son’s sprawled hulk. She knelt in the dust, cradled his head on her lap and fanned his face with her skirt.

  Potts moaned and stared at his mother through unfocused eyes. “What happened?”

  “He attacked you.” She pulled a dingy handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at his bleeding nose.

  “On the contrary, Mrs. Potts. I saved your son from serious injury. Had I not stopped him, he would have rammed headfirst into Miss Caswell’s automobile.”

  Rand knelt beside the biker and rummaged through his pockets.

  “Hold on,” Mrs. Potts said. “Do you mean to rob him, too? I’m calling the police.”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Tory said. “They’ll lock your son up for substance abuse.”

  Rand rose, brushed the dirt from the knee of his jeans and held up a set of keys that sparkled in the sunlight. “As soon as we’ve gone a mile, we’ll place these at the foot of the next road sign.”

  He opened the door for Tory. Retroactive fear made her legs tremble and she welcomed the opportunity to sit as she eased behind the wheel.

  “You all right?” he asked. “Want me to drive?”

  “You?”

  The corners of his mouth lifted in a jaunty grin. “I thought that would bring the color back to your face.”

  He closed her door, then circled the car and climbed in. As they exited the lot, she glanced at her rearview mirror. Mrs. Potts had her son by the ear, dragging his staggering bulk inside the store.

  “If’n I told you once,” the little woman hollered, “I told you a thousand times, them mushrooms’ll fry what pea brain you got left.”

  “Leggo, Ma! Damn, you’re hurtin’ me!”

  “You’ll be lucky if I don’t tan yore hide and hang it up to cure.”

  Tory headed east on the country road, stopping only long enough for Rand to deposit Potts’s motorcycle keys beneath a speed limit sign. They rode on in silence until she could no longer curb her curiosity.

  “Would you really have done a deal with Potts? Traded me for his cycle?”

  He removed his sunglasses. “You interrupted the bargaining when you knocked Potts off his feet. He was in no mood for making a deal after that. I guess now we’ll never know.”

  She caught a glimmer of humor in his eyes before he donned his glasses again, but whether it was good-natured or mocking, she couldn’t tell.

  * * *

  RAND ADJUSTED his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose and hoped his eyes hadn’t given him away. The mixture of rage and fear he’d experienced when the biker grabbed Victoria had shaken him worse than anything since the death of his parents.

  Smallwood’s theory had to work—and soon. Last night he’d conquered the urge to make love to her, to cradle her body against his and join himself to her flesh with violent tenderness. But earlier she’d made it clear she had no use for husband or family, and although the promiscuous attitudes of her society might excuse a casual sexual liaison, his own mores wouldn’t allow him to indulge in such selfishness. When he committed himself to a woman, it would be for life. If Smallwood was right, his lifetime with Victoria would amount only to a matter of days.

  He’d wanted her to return with him. He’d practically proposed marriage. But she had been right to refuse. Her world was too different from the one he’d left. She’d be a social outcast among his peers if she proclaimed her ideals of independence and self-sufficiency. Even the suffragettes didn’t go that far.

  Stay here with her. He disregarded the clamor in his heart. He’d be a misfit in her world. All he knew was making money, and he hadn’t enough capital to build the kind of fortune to which he was accustomed. The thought of earning his living as an advertising symbol for other men’s success galled him.

  “Why are you so fascinated with motorcycles?” Her voice brought him out of his contemplation.

  He considered her question a moment before answering. “Must be the power and freedom they provide.”

  “Like horses?”

  “A horse has a will of its own that must be tamed to the rider’s, but the machine would become an extension of oneself.”

  “Did you own one in Chicago? They did have them in 1897, didn’t they?”

  “I remember reading a newspaper article about Daimler in Germany building the first one, and now—in my time—some firm in Munich is manufacturing them commercially. But I doubt they’re as sleek or powerful as what I’ve seen here.”

  “With the money you already have and what you’ll make from the Money Man campaign, you can buy your own.”

  “When I return to my home in Chicago,” he stated with emphasis, “I might purchase such a vehicle, but I doubt my horses will like it.”

  He pictured his stables, rows of magnificent animals who showed him more affection than most humans he knew. He’d cut short his stay at the Bellevue as soon as he’d consummated his agreement with Phiswick. He’d even purchase a motorcycle, although he doubted he’d be allowed to ride it on city streets. He concentrated on the deals he’d make after Phiswick, tallying his millions in his mind, attempting without success to forget the woman at his side.

  “Lake City’s just ahead,” she said. “We’ll arrive at the Bellevue in time for dinner in spite of the detour.”

  He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. They couldn’t arrive quickly enough to suit him. He prayed the temporal disturbance would occur soon, before he succumbed completely to the distractions of the twentieth century—and most distracting of all was Victoria Caswell.

  * * *

  “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, you’re not leaving this room?” Tory winced as her voice leapt an octave. Immediately upon reaching their suite at the Bellevue, Rand had plopped himself down and stated he’d not set foot outside again.

  He leaned back on the sofa and clasped his hands behind his head, looking at her with that intractable expression she’d come to dread.

  “I don’t know how long I’ll have when time folds back on itself again. I don’t want to miss my chance.” His reasonable tone infuriated her.

  “How many times do I have to tell you? It’s all theory. There’s isn’t going to be a chance.” She took a deep breath and lowered her voice. “You’re stuck here and you might as well make the most of it—instead of holing up in this room like a hermit.”

  As he leaned toward her a frown creased his face. “What about you?”

  Tired of the argument, she rubbed her aching forehead. “I certainly don’t intend to sit here waiting for something that isn’t going to happen.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” His gaze locked with hers, and his daunting expression cooled her anger. “When the time shift occurs, if you’re here, will you be thrown back to 1897 as well?”

  She sighed and collapsed into the chair across from him, wondering if the gleam in his eyes was hope or perversity. “I don’t think I need to worry about that.”

  “You ought to be concerned, unless you’ve changed your mind about accompanying me. I checked with Emma. There’s still no other room available.”

  She eyed him warily. Was he trying to get rid of her? If so, he was bound for disappointment. She refused to let him out of her sight. After all, she’d started the production wheels rolling on the ad campaign, and she intended to stick with him like a burr on a dog until the work was completed.

  He rose and crossed the room to kneel before her chair. When she refused to meet his gaze, he placed a finger beneath her chin and tilted her face toward his. “Why are you so angry?”

  Because you don’t
love me enough to want to stay here with me. Because now that I’ve found you, I don’t want to lose you.

  Awareness descended on her like a mountain rockslide and rebellious tears formed in her eyes. “I’m scared there’s the slightest chance Smallwood might be right. I couldn’t bear never seeing you again.”

  A tear rolled down her cheek and he smoothed it away with his thumb. “You mustn’t cry. We’ve known all along I don’t belong in your world. And that you’d be miserable in mine.”

  Another tear pooled and raced down her jaw to her lip. His fingers brushed it away, leaving a fiery trace tingling in their path.

  “I’m not worth your tears,” he said. “I’ve caused you nothing but inconvenience since my arrival. Once you’ve settled back into your routine, you’ll forget me.”

  She stared at him, burning the image of his dark hair, smoky eyes and lean, muscled body into her memory. “I’ll never forget you.”

  She was making a fool of herself. He’d already made it clear he didn’t want to stay with her.

  He groaned like a man in mortal pain. “Don’t look at me that way, Victoria. I can’t be responsible—”

  Pressing her fingertips against his lips, she turned his logic against him. “If you’re right and all we have left together is a few more days, why waste them?”

  He grasped her hand and buried his face in her palm. His lips nibbled against her skin. “This isn’t fair to you.”

  She ran the fingers of her free hand through the silky thickness of his hair. “I’m not asking for a lifetime. Just for now.”

  Lean, strong hands cupped her face as he forced her to meet his eyes. “And if I cannot return to the past?”

  “Then I’ll help you find happiness here.”

  Alarm bells clanged in a distant segment of her mind, reminding her of how love had killed her mother, of her own desire for independence, of the risk of becoming involved with a man in her employ. But as he lowered his hands, skimming the column of her neck, grazing her shoulders, caressing her arms, the frantic pulse of her heart drowned out the chaos of her conscience. She swayed toward him, drawn by a force stronger than gravity, older than time.