Only Yesterday

by Webb, Peggy

  "Yes." She turned pale, and he cupped her face. "Annie . . . what's wrong? Are you all right'"

  "It's nothing. I'm fine."

  She stepped back from him and wrapped her arms around herself, still pale, suddenly guarded. Colt decided not to pursue the issue. Instead he looked around. In the dim glow of the candle he saw the family portraits lining the far wall. He took in the pallet, the small supply of food and water, the extra batteries she'd brought for the flashlight He nodded approvingly. Ann Debeau was a smart woman. She hadn't merely retreated; she'd planned ahead.

  His eyes fell on the clock, and the roses. Colt was inordinately pleased. He swung his gaze around, looking for the orchids but they were nowhere in sight. That pleased him even more.

  He'd caught a glimpse of the card that day in the hallway of Windchime House. To be more precise, he'd sneaked a peak when she wasn't looking. Annie had rescued his roses but had left her fiancé‘s orchids behind.

  "The lights went out before I could get the orchids," she said as if she'd read his mind.

  Colt began to whistle. He was with Annie. Nothing could dampen his spirits now.

  She moved the roses out of the circle of light. "I don't want you to make anything of it," she said.

  "Like what?"

  "Never mind. You're dripping wet. We've got to get you out of those clothes."

  "I'd like nothing better."

  She blushed. "That's not what I meant."

  "I like the way your mind works, Miss Annie Debeau."

  "Quit calling me that."

  "Quit calling you what?"

  "Annie."

  "It's your name."

  "No, it's not. My name is Ann."

  "Charlotte Ann Debeau. Annie." Whistling, he made his way to the attic door. Shining the flashlight, he checked the level of water. Ann looked over his shoulder.

  "How high was it yesterday?" he asked.

  "The third step from the top."

  "Good. It's not rising."

  "How soon do you think we can leave?"

  "Not until the storm system has moved on and these floodwaters become less treacherous. It could be a few days." He grinned at her. "Now, what was that you were saying about getting me out of these wet clothes?"

  Ann felt selfish to the core. Colt had risked his life to rescue her, and all she could think about was protecting herself. The only excuse she had was temporary insanity.

  From the minute he'd stepped into the attic she'd been overcome with an overwhelming sense that she was in some kind of time warp. Every time she looked at him she saw the face in the photograph, Anthony Chance, fighter pilot, artist, her grandmother's lover.

  Furthermore, she felt stirrings she'd never felt before, a deep emotional pull that went beyond the physical. Everything about him linked him to the man in the love letters, his looks, his stance, his smile. She'd practically fainted when she found out he was a pilot too.

  He was looking at her with that quirky half smile of his, and all she wanted to do was curl against him and wrap herself in his strong arms once more. She'd felt safe there, but more, ever so much more, she'd felt a sense of rightness, of belonging, of fate.

  She'd never felt that way in Rob's arms.

  The minute that thought entered her mind, she was ashamed of herself. Extraordinary circumstances gave birth to strange emotions, strange behaviors.

  Everything would fall into its proper place once she got back to New York.

  "I didn't even say thank you for braving those waters to come to me. Please forgive me. I've been incredibly thoughtless."

  "There's nothing to forgive. When there's an emergency, I do what I can to help."

  His statement was like a dash of cold water. She'd thought his heroics were all for her.

  Colt's smile took the sting out of the words. More than that, it made her toes curl and her heart lurch.

  It was going to be a long night. Ann turned quickly to the trunk.

  "You can't sleep in those wet clothes. There might be something in here that will fit you." She rooted blindly, going more by feel than sight. In the window the candle flickered.

  "Here. Let me help you." Colt was beside her, holding a flashlight.

  That was the last thing she needed, him kneeling beside her, setting off fireworks underneath her skin. She'd blame her trembling hands on fatigue if she didn't know better.

  The beam of the flashlight caught the stack of letters she'd hastily stowed when she went back for the flashlight, and on top, the photograph.

  "My God." Colt picked up the picture and held it under the beam of light. "That's unbelievable. Who is this?"

  "Anthony Chance."

  "Your grandmother's artist."

  "Her lover."

  The words were out before she could stop them. Colt looked as if he'd been shot. He swung the beam of light toward her grandmother's portrait, then back to the photograph.

  The silence was electric. So caught up were they in the mystery they'd discovered, they didn't hear the wind pick up speed, didn't hear the distant rumbling of thunder.

  Colt cupped her chin and trained the light on her face. "Incredible," he said. "They could be you and me.

  "But they aren't," she whispered.

  "Do you know that for a fact?" She didn't answer, couldn't answer. "Do you believe in reincarnation, Annie?"

  "Don't call me that."

  "Why?"

  "Because that's what he called her ... in the letters."

  Colt traced her face with the tips of his fingers. "Didn't you feel it, Annie? From the very beginning. There's something special between us."

  She shook her head vigorously, trying to deny the truth. But there it was, staring her in the face. "I won't let it be true."

  "You can't stop your feelings any more than you can stop any other powerful force of nature. They're just there, Annie, like the sun rising in the morning or the evening star shining in a darkening sky."

  He was still touching her face, and she wanted to lean into his touch and purr. She wanted to pull him down to the antique quilt and wrap herself around him so close, she couldn't tell where her skin ended and his began. She wanted to make love to him, real love, the kind that built slowly, with hot, lingering kisses and heady explorations.

  "What are you thinking?" he said.

  She couldn't tell him. She didn't dare.

  "I'm thinking that you're going to catch pneumonia and die in those wet clothes." She pulled free and rummaged in the trunk until she came across a pair of pants and a white shirt, vintage, smelling slightly of mothballs.

  "These should fit." She thrust them into his hands. "I'll turn my back."

  He chuckled as if she'd made a joke. "So, what happened to him? Why didn't they marry?"

  "I don't know yet. I've just started reading his letters."

  "I'd love to read them ... if you offered. But of course they're your family history, not mine . . . You can turn around now."

  The clothes were a perfect fit. Nervous sweat popped out on her brow.

  "From the cut and style I'd guess these were your grandfather's."

  "No. He was a very small man. So was my father."

  Colt lifted his eyebrow, but she was grateful he didn't speculate. Ann didn't want to think about Anthony Chance anymore. She didn't want to puzzle over the bizarre similarities.

  "I'm afraid I can't offer you much in the way of sleeping accommodations. I didn't expect company."

  "I'm glad to see you still have your sense of humor.

  "Better to laugh than to cry." She handed him the antique quilt.

  He took the quilt, and along with it her hand. His eyes never left hers as he planted a kiss in her palm. "Sweet dreams, Annie."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The night was moonless. Catlike, Colt adjusted to the black void that was the inside of the attic until he could pick out shadows, the old steamer trunk hunkered in the dark like a half-grown sleeping bull, an upright hat- rack where fedoras and top hats a
nd wide-brimmed summer hats sprouted like exotic flowers, the shelf along the west wall where odd-shaped objects crouched like so many cats set to spring, the sleek lines of Annie as she lay sleeping on the pallet within an arm's reach.

  He balled his hand into a fist to keep from touching her. His job was to rescue her, not confuse her.

  He swung his gaze to the window, heard the steady beat of rain against the panes. With each drop that fell, their chances of leaving the attic tomorrow decreased. The journey to Windchime House had been treacherous. With the floodwaters even more swollen, he wouldn't dare put Annie at risk.

  She tossed in her sleep, moaning. Her hand, flung out like a flower, lay in the dark space between their pallets. Colt reached out and with one fingertip traced the pattern of delicate bones across the tops of her fingers, the ridge of her knuckles, downward to the small knob of her wrist. Then turning to his side, he gathered the small hand into his and strained across the darkness to watch her sleep.

  A streak of lightning illuminated the attic, bursting silver and gold into the room so that for a moment she flickered into full view, beautiful as a dream, a heartbeat, a memory. Too quickly she lay in darkness once more.

  Colt closed his eyes, hoping sleep would claim him, but her cry brought him bolt upright.

  "No! The clock, the clock." Still sleeping she thrashed from side to side, fighting the dreams that terrified her.

  He rolled over and cradled her close, pressing her head against his chest, holding her arms tightly against his body.

  "Shhh. It's okay, Annie. It's only a dream."

  She snuggled against him, sighing. Her hand was open against his heart, and he wondered that the pounding didn't awaken her.

  He held her that way for a time, listening to the rain and wishing he had a right to be the one she turned to in the night. Strange. He'd never wanted so much from a woman.

  Her breath fanned warm against his skin, heating his blood. He pulled his hips back lest the disturbance in his own body convey itself to hers.

  Suddenly she was thrashing again, pushing against him.

  "No! Anthony . . . Anthony!"

  "It's a nightmare, Annie. Nothing more." He tried to soothe her with quiet words, soft caresses, but she jerked upright, eyes wide and staring into the distance as if she were still seeing the images of her dream.

  "I can't find him. Anthony!"

  He cupped her face, caught the tears that dripped off her chin with the pads of his thumbs. Then he sought to soothe her in the only way he knew how.

  "I'm here," he whispered. "I'm right beside you."

  She calmed down immediately and leaned against him, breathing in his scent. Feeling like a thief, he slid his hands into her sleek hair, then downward until his thumbs rested in the small, silky indentation at the base of her skull. She lifted her face to his, and he kissed her, softly at first, afraid to shatter the dream. Then as his passion mounted, with growing ardor.

  "Annie . . . Annie." He murmured her name, drawing her closer until she was fitted against him as intimately as a lover.

  Her mouth flowered open, and he explored the soft inner recesses, the sweet nubby texture of her tongue, the satiny ridges of her inner jaws. Her arms tightened around him, her body tensing like the strings of a piano drawn tight for tuning.

  His response was instantaneous. In perfect mimicry of that age-old mating ritual, he thrust his tongue against hers. She arched into him, moaning in pleasure.

  Her hands delved under his shirt, splayed against his back, fingers spread wide, tips pressing into his bare skin. He found the soft mounds of her breasts, circled his thumbs on nipples as erect and tight as rosebuds.

  He had to rein in his passion.

  Honor held him back. And pride. He didn't want to make love to her as another man. If he loved her—when he loved her—it would be as Colt Butler, not as the Anthony Chance of her dreams.

  He softened the kiss, then pulled back from her.

  "Annie, listen to me." He cupped her face again, feeling the flushed heat of her skin. "You're dreaming."

  "If this is a dream, don't wake me, Colt."

  Colt? Something like Fourth of July sparklers went off inside his chest.

  "When did you realize it was me?"

  "From the moment your lips touched mine." She scooted backward onto her pallet and hugged her knees. "I was dreaming, and I felt such a sense of loss." She raked her hands through her dark hair. "Then you were there, and you felt so good, so safe. And when you kissed me, I kissed you back. I'm sorry."

  “I’m not.”

  Breathless, they waited, respecting the small, dark space that separated them.

  "I don't mean to mislead you, Colt. I'm committed to Rob."

  "And he's in New York and I'm here."

  "Please . . . it's not like that. I'm not like that."

  She flung aside the covers, lit the candle, and set it on the floor between them. Then she reached for his hand.

  "I don't know how to explain this," she said. "I guess I'm doing a very poor job."

  "I'm listening."

  "I feel connected to you. I don't know why. Maybe it's because you rescued me." She laughed. "Maybe I'm like the captives who fell under the spell of their captors. Or perhaps I owe my life to you because you saved it."

  "Maybe the answer is in the letters." He glanced toward the trunk. "When you were dreaming you cried out Anthony Chance's name, but you also kept saying something about a clock."

  "A clock? I don't recall reading anything about a clock."

  She went to the trunk and took out the stack of letters. Fanned across the floor in the candlelight, they glowed like the faces of ghosts. Sorting through, she found the ones she hadn't read. The brittle paper crackled as she pulled a letter from the envelope.

  "My dearest Annie," she read aloud, head bent, shiny hair sliding forward over the left side of her cheek. She glanced up at him to see his reaction.

  He felt exalted and humbled at the same time. That she would share private family letters with him demonstrated the deepest sort of trust.

  "Thank you," he said.

  She merely nodded, then continued reading. "It is morning and all is quiet, but last night the sky was lit up with red tracers and exploding shells. The Chicago was hit and so were we, but we got lucky and the torpedo that hit us didn't explode. The Chicago sank. Selfish to the core, I was glad it was them and not us. A watery Pacific grave is not in my plans for the future. You are, my darling Annie, and all the babies we will have."

  Something lurched inside Colt. "All my love," he whispered.

  "That's exactly what it says. How did you know?"

  "A lucky guess," he said. She put the letter on the pile, and he picked it up and scanned it. "Nothing about a clock."

  She picked up another letter. "My darling," she said, reading aloud. "Death and destruction all around. The only thing that keeps me sane is thinking of you, of the way you look with your hair flowing down your back, of the way you tilt your head back when you laugh, of the way your skin looks like pearls when the sun slants across it. Think of me, Annie. Every time you look at the clock I gave you the day I left . . ."

  Annie lifted her face to his. "The clock," she said.

  "What else does he say in the letter?"

  She continued. ". . . think of the months and weeks and days flying by, think that each minute ticked off draws closer the day when we will be together again."

  "That's all?"

  "No. There's more."

  Bright color flagged her cheeks. It was very appealing, that innocent blush.

  Colt took the letter and finished reading it, silently, out of respect for her.

  "Remember what I told you. 'The clock is to mark time until we meet again.' And when Felix the Cat wags his tail, you ain't seen nothing yet, babe! Just wait till I get home. Your very own ever loving tomcat, Anthony."

  Stunned, Colt could do nothing but stare at Ann Debeau, the woman who had inexplicably been his A
nnie from the moment they met. He recalled the day he'd first seen her, standing on tiptoes to reach the clock. He hadn't known why they were both drawn to the ridiculous cat clock, couldn't have said why he'd bought it for her, why he'd handed it to her in the doorway with the admonition, "To mark time until we meet again."

  He laid the letter on the stack between them. "Do you know where the clock is?"

  "Maybe it's not the same clock," she said. She went to the trunk and rummaged around, arranging its contents on the floor along with the letters. There was a locket, rose-gold, the engraving worn thin by years of touching.

  She snapped it open. Inside were pictures of Charlotte Ann Harris and Anthony Chance.

  She brought out a Bible with a tattered cover, a silk shawl with pink roses embroidered on the border, the white dress her grandmother had been painted in, and at the bottom of the trunk a beautiful white Victorian gown wrapped in tissue paper with a note attached. My grandmother’s wedding dress, the one I planned to wear when I married Anthony.

  But no clock.

  The candle melted down and flickered. Colt knelt beside her at the trunk, and their shadows merged on the attic walls.

  "We'll look tomorrow when it's light." Her eyes were bright as she stared at him, then slowly she turned her face to the window.

  "It's raining," she said.

  "Don't worry. I'll keep you safe." He held out his hand, and she placed hers softly inside. He led her to the pallet, snuffed out the candle, then lay down beside her, her head cradled on his shoulder.

  She drew the antique quilt over them. "Good night, Colt," she said.

  " 'Night, dear Annie."

  o0o

  Ann jarred awake at first light. Her face was pressed into the curve of Colt's shoulder, her arm flung across his chest, and her leg pressed tight against his thigh. She felt a twinge of disloyalty to Rob, then quickly shoved it aside.

  Comfort. That's all it was. Nothing had happened between her and Colt, nothing at all except that he'd held her close and kept the nightmares at bay.

  She untangled herself quietly, then walked barefoot to the window and looked out. A gray sheet of rain obscured everything except the tip of a red fender floating by, and in the distance lightning split the sky.