Love of Her Lives

by Clare, Sharon

  The Ashbury Conservation Area bordered her backyard to the south. Canadian maple and birch trees were just coming into leaf. A foot trail ran alongside a river where crisp, green fiddleheads would soon feather into sumptuous ferns to cover the rich soil like giant hands. She could easily pick enough for their dinner.

  The May morning was typical for Ontario, cool with the sun drying the morning dew and the promise of cherry blossoms perfuming the air. Just the sort of day for new beginnings. She should serve something to ensure Matthew left the house after dinner. Baked beans?

  She chuckled as she approached her garden shed. A heaping plate of Rocky Mountain oysters would have him running for the curb before dinner. How do you prefer your bull’s testicles, Matthew? Rare? Well done? Roasted in their sac?

  As she approached the shed, she noticed the door was unlatched and slightly ajar. Odd. She pulled it open to let the sun cast light inside. Her meager possessions included gardening gloves, trowel, a couple of plastic pots, and a bag of fertiliser. The row of hooks on the side wall sat empty except for her new spade.

  She took a closer look. The spade no longer looked unused but had dirt clinging to its tip. Had one of her neighbours borrowed it when she wasn’t home?

  She walked down the yard to her property line roughly butted by the edge of an old pine forest. Since her gaze was glued to the ground, she noticed the beautiful, pink–streaked granite rock at the corner of her property. It looked odd, not embedded in the soil like others in the woods, but sitting up on top.

  As she bent over to examine the rock, she noticed a footprint quite a bit larger than her size eight shoe. Dirt around the stone looked as though it had been stamped down. Footprints? Smoothed over earth? Had the stone been put there as a marker? With both hands, she shoved the rock aside.

  It only took a moment to retrieve her spade. She drove it into the soil with her foot. Sure enough, the spade slid easily into the ground, too easily for untilled soil.

  Putting her back into it, she shoveled out earth. On her tenth scoop, Beth snagged a canvas strap.

  After a quick scan of the woods, she dropped to her haunches and tugged the strap free. It belonged to a black Roots backpack. She brushed away the dirt and gave the bag a shake. Not as heavy as a backpack full of school books, but it was full of something. Leaning in, she gave it a cautious sniff — earth and something herbal? Nothing putrid though. The remains of a dead animal were a find she could do without.

  Nerves jittered to life in her hand as she tugged the zipper open. With the tips of her fingers, she peeled back the canvas flap and peered inside. Her jaw dropped. Buried treasure defined it perfectly. Inside the backpack was a stack of bills neatly wrapped and sealed in a Ziploc bag. With a quick glance around, she lifted it up and found another plastic bag underneath. The source of the herbal smell, she determined as she pulled it out. No need to open the bag to know it wasn’t oregano she held in her hands. She snapped her mouth closed as her eyes darted left and right.

  A recollection surfaced of a television episode where a hiker found a gym bag of drug money from greasy addicts who pilfered kids’ innocence through a schoolyard fence. She almost dropped the backpack. Not in her backyard — no way. Ashbury had a negligible crime rate, and she’d send a strong message to the bad ass who thought to corrupt her community. The loot was going directly to the police.

  Beth set the bag aside, filled the hole and repositioned the stone. Brushing her hands off on her jeans, she reached for the bag and stopped. Her heart rapped against her ribcage like a warning bell.

  Footsteps!

  Chapter 3

  Ambiguous Passage

  Calum did not land in the woods near Bethia’s home, as he had requested of Finn, where songbirds might have squawked at his arrival. Instead, he was greeted by a foul whoosh followed by an obnoxious sucking sound that he would have sprinted from had he room to sprint. Locked inside a cabinet with an oddly shaped, white cistern and no elbowroom, he felt every muscle tense in his twelfth–century warrior’s body. Where the hell was he?

  The cabinet wall did not reach the ceiling, so he stepped up onto the cistern’s wide black rim and peered over the top of the wall to find another cabinet of the same ilk where a lad sat with his breeches pooled about his ankles. As the lad’s head tilted back, Calum jumped to the floor.

  He hadn’t walked the earth in over a hundred years, but there was no misunderstanding the odour wafting from the neighbouring stall. No sweet smell of the woodlands here, he was in a public toilet. Finn must think himself amusing.

  At least he wasn’t dressed like a Highland warrior. Skin–tight black breeches clung to his muscular legs. Too tight for a man his size. What if he should see Bethia and grow hard? The breeches could very well do damage, and there’d be little left to her imagination. That thought brought a smile to his lips and an awareness of a bulge in his pants. He plunged his hand into his right pocket and withdrew a rolled wad of paper. Ah, currency, he realized after examination. Finn might have a sick sense of humour, but he was accommodating.

  He stuffed the money back into his pants and rolled onto the balls of his feet. The black boots seemed serviceable enough, and his shirt was made of surprisingly fine wool dyed a rich brown.

  Another whoosh sounded from the cabinet beside him, but he only flinched. He may find the sounds of the twenty-first century obnoxious, but it wouldn’t serve him to show it. His gaze landed on the silver latch just as he heard a click next door followed by shuffling feet.

  He couldn’t get out fast enough and hardly glanced at his reflection in the looking glass before following the lad out the door. His reflection had been a familiar one.

  Finn had granted him an exceptional body from long ago when he’d lived with Bethia in the Scottish Highlands as a fervent warrior with passion pumping through his bloodstream. The significance wasn’t lost on him. That life had been their most poignant; the one where they’d vowed eternal love. Additional traits of the warrior flickered through his consciousness. He remembered celebrating a lustful disposition and a fiery temperament he now felt strongly. He’d have to keep a watch on that.

  Calum inhaled deeply to the count of four, and then exhaled to the same count. Emotions would not govern him, but lust? Not a concern, lust could have free rein. He hungered after one woman only and, forby, he was human.

  He stopped to peer down a long hall where a steady flow of young people streamed in both directions. When he peeked in a room numbered 1077, he realized where he was. Classrooms hadn’t changed much in a century’s time. With luck, Finn had deposited him at Bethia’s university.

  His first grounded thought was a salacious one. Two women walked toward him wearing a style of breeches that held tight to their curves. The bare belly of the redhead, not to mention the sparkle of a gem in her navel, was enough to drive a hot–blooded man to distraction. While he understood fashions had changed in one hundred Earth years, he’d not anticipated the effect of such women fashioned in quantity.

  He felt a mere hint of arousal as the redhead’s eyelids dipped in a sultry glance over glistening lips that parted indecently. His smile was friendly, but he craved no others than Bethia’s lips. Would she paint sheen on her lips to entice him or show him the tip of her pink tongue like the redheaded lass was doing? In this lifetime, Bethia’s hair was fair, as he preferred, the colour of summer wheat. He longed to feel the silky texture tangle about his fingers. Longed to know the taste of her on his tongue. The blood rushed to his groin when he envisioned his lips exploring the curve of her neck, the slope of her breast, the hollow of her hip.

  Where was his woman?

  The sultry redhead brushed her arm against his as she glided by; close enough for him to smell the heavy musk of her perfume. What fragrance did Bethia wear? Or did she wear nothing that masked her natural scent? Soon, he would lay his cheek against her skin and bre
athe her in deeply.

  First, he had to find her.

  Reaching out with his senses, he searched for the feel of her, knowing how to connect with her this way as her spirit guide. He was dismayed to feel nothing at first. Why would Finn deliver him to the university if she was not present? He’d impressed upon the elf the seriousness of arriving early enough to stop her from touching the black satchel, since it seemed to lie at the root of her trouble.

  The feel of her was distant and disturbingly faint. All he knew of her studies was that they encompassed a branch of philosophy that examined the mind. Now he knew two things: she was not attending class that day, and he’d been a fool to trust Finn.

  Two men stopped near him in front of room 1077. A middle–aged man, dressed in a crisp black jacket, spoke to a lad with short, clipped hair wearing an oversized shirt and breeches that hung dangerously low on his hips. Teacher and student, he gleaned from overhearing.

  “ … a fungal species that is pathogenic to plants,” said the professor. “We’ll begin the lab work on Monday, Derek, 8 A.M.; I’d like to have you on board.”

  “Cool. I’m interested in how temperature affects fungi, so this will work out. Thanks, Professor Smythe. I gotta get to class, so I’ll meet you in your lab on Monday morning.”

  As the professor entered room 1077, Calum watched him drape his jacket over a chair, take papers from what looked to be a modern carpet bag to arrange on a dais, and then exit the room. An idea formulated in his mind. While students appeared to dress with no care at all, he imagined professors would respect their profession by dressing conventionally. The jacket would give him the scholarly touch he needed, and that bag would add credibility. While he typically didn’t condone theft, his woman’s life was at stake, so he would borrow the jacket and see it returned to the university later.

  With a glance up and down the hallway, he slipped into the room and snatched both the jacket and the bag. To be as accommodating as possible to Professor Smythe, he emptied the bag of its contents except for a sheath of paper and writing tools. Those he would use when he approached Bethia. He hoped she would not tap into subconscious memories of their last life together and the horrific fight that led to her sudden death, but that she would remember the love bond between them and welcome him into her life.

  He remembered Finn’s warning. Calum must not use his will to influence Bethia. Free will was a sticky thing — no bending, no loop holes, no interference in any way. He intended to heed the warning.

  Outside the university, he stood on the smooth stone path and took a moment to acclimatize. Odours assailed him. Not familiar city smells. Despite the stream of humanity overflowing the walkways, the air held no natural scents. Where was the earth, the grasses, the creatures? He’d followed the progress of the automobile, so he wasn’t surprised to see them on the streets, but the speed at which they travelled astonished him, and their stench had him longing for a civilisation setback.

  However, this was no time to pine for a mountain beneath his feet. Who knew what trouble Bethia might get into while he was diverted?

  His attention was drawn by a woman waving her arm. “Taxi, here please.” She hollered at a passing automobile that pulled to a stop against the curb. Calum watched as the woman climbed in behind the driver and issued an address. It didn’t take him long to catch the gist of this service.

  A roil of dread curdled his belly as if Bethia was in danger. What if he was already too late?

  An auto with a taxi sign approached. He stepped off the curb to halt the vehicle. It screeched to a stop with the driver waving his fist.

  “Good day, sir.” He opened the door and slipped in beside the driver.

  “What crazy thing you do. Are you an insane man? I almost run you down.” The taxi man’s brown eyes blinked repeatedly in a chestnut face that showed little composure.

  “Calm yourself. My reflexes are sharp. Carry on, now. We must make way to Ashbury immediately.”

  Chapter 4

  Risk Not, Live Not

  The woods darkened as the sun vanished behind a cloud. Beth’s mouth went dry. She looked over her shoulder to see a quarterback–like guy walking on the trail that ran along the river. The criminal that banked in the woods?

  Truly it would be a wild coincidence for the guy who’d buried the backpack to come along just as she dug it up.

  With the backpack slung over her shoulder, she hurried toward her house with her ears tuned to his footsteps. Halfway up the yard, she spared a glance over her shoulder.

  What a ridiculous imagination she had. The guy didn’t stray from the trail or seem to notice her.

  Safe inside, she tipped the pack to empty the contents onto her kitchen table. Out slipped one large cash–filled Ziploc followed by one sandwich–sized, marijuana–filled Ziploc. Nothing in the pockets, except … oh, this was interesting. One business card — Chantal Desjardins, RE/MAX Alliance, Quebec City. A real estate agent. Odd.

  Beth put the business card aside, glanced out her kitchen window, and removed a pack of bills from the baggie. A fan through the stack revealed twenty dollar bills. She counted out two hundred bills and did the math — $4,000. Ten similar stacks were nestled together. A quick calculation meant she had $40,000 on her kitchen table.

  Lucky thing her father had planted the fear of God in her when she was young. She pictured His divine pen poised to besmirch her good record if she dared take one crisp bill. Way to go, Dad. Besides, she had her own money, lottery girl — $1,472,000, a life–changing win.

  Shocking how fast money goes.

  The police station sat out on the highway at the other side of town. She read the clock on the microwave. Ten thirty. Given that she needed to leave the house soon to pick up lunches for her Meals on the Move clients, she’d have to drop the backpack off afterward. Volunteers were hard to come by, and the elderly shut–ins depended on her for their meals.

  As Beth stuffed the money and drugs back in place, the doorbell rang. She scooted down the centre hall, opened the door, and nearly gasped.

  A man stood on her porch, not just an everyday man, but an incredibly stunning one who oozed vitality at first glance. Why she would gasp at the sight of him, she didn’t know. Their eyes met. His lips parted into a slow smile under eyes of boundless blue, a rich summer-sky blue, the kind that drew your eyes up to take notice.

  He pulled in a long breath. “Bethia.” The name slid off his tongue like a sensual whisper that floated into her ear. The stunning smile he shot her was laced with such confidence; she paused for a second before answering. No one had ever called her Bethia. “Not exactly, no.”

  “You are Beth Stewart.” His voice was deep, husky, and rich in substance drawn from a far–off place. Celtic origins, for sure. Strands of his shoulder–length, crème–caramel hair, brushed his cheekbones. A quick flick of his head removed the length of hair from his face. The gesture looked oddly familiar, but she supposed the motion was common enough for a man with long hair.

  “I am Calum Cunningham, a professor from the university.” He offered his hand which she shook, keenly aware when his thumb brushed against the sensitive centre of her palm. With a gentle twist of his wrist, he pulled her hand to his lips and laid a kiss on her skin that dispersed like a soothing caress through her mind. Giving her head a little shake helped to dispel his charm.

  “Ah, well the name Bethia means life. As life goes, there are many paths to choose, Beth, and if you’ve a care to stay out of harm’s way, you must be sure to choose well.”

  Okay, that was a strange thing to say. “Actually, Beth comes from Elizabeth. I was named for my great–grandmother, but thanks for the sage advice. What can I do for you, professor?”

  He leaned back on one heel, unruffled by her sarcasm or the look of irritation she’d sent him. Instead, his beautiful lips formed another rousing smile that r
eached clear to those eyes of blue. “‘Tis a fine name for a lovely lass. I’m visiting summer students to conduct a study on risk–taking behaviour.”

  He still held her hand. In his right hand a clipboard rested against his thigh. “May I come inside and ask you a few questions?” He gazed at her mouth, at her hair, and then scrutinized her from top to bottom. Geez, this man had a way about him — a way of bewitching a woman, fully confident of her surrender — no mistaking the sensual heat of an attempted conquest there.

  He had to be kidding.

  She pulled her hand free and probably should have shut the door in his inappropriate face, but she couldn’t help giving him a taste of his own ogling.

  She ogled him right back. The man was built like a warrior, tall, wide in the shoulders with a chest broad enough for a woman to spend the afternoon exploring. Warrior? That was an odd association to pop into her mind, as if you couldn’t go anywhere these days without bumping into a warrior. Whether he was a university professor or not remained to be seen, but he definitely looked good in those jeans and mocha turtleneck.

  His fingers drummed the curve of an impressive biceps as he regarded her, regarding him. She took her time scanning the square jaw and feline angles of his face, but this guy was no tabby cat. Tabbies weren’t warriors. He was cut from the mountains — solid muscle, graceful lines, and eyes smooth as still water.

  “No, Professor Cunningham, you may not come inside.”

  He shot her a satisfied smile and leaned down to pull a pen from the pocket of the briefcase at his feet. “Very good. I’m glad to know you’re a sensible lass.” He lowered his head toward hers. “Never let strangers into your home.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  His smile enchanted, like he kept a secret just behind it she might like to know. He was enchanting all right, subtle enough not to be overdone, but she saw through that tactic. This guy was one of those raw, masculine, Tarzan types who could throw a girl over his shoulder like she was lunch.