Here and Then

by Linda Lael Miller

  She continued to scream while Farley frantically clutched the necklace and willed himself back to the 1990s and Rue. The poker was coming toward his head when the mattress turned hard again and the wallpaper changed to paneling. He hadn’t had more than two seconds to acclimatize himself when the bedroom door flew open and Rue burst in. She hurled herself over the foot of the bed and scrambled the rest of the way to Farley on her knees, throwing her arms around his neck when she reached him.

  “I heard you yell. You saw something, didn’t you? Something happened.”

  Farley tossed the necklace aside and embraced Rue. She was real and solid, thank God. “Yes,” he finally rasped when his breathing had slowed to the point where speech was possible. “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. A woman with a poker in her hand—”

  Rue drew back, her hands resting on the sides of his face, her eyes full of questions. “You’re sure you weren’t dreaming?”

  Farley laughed, though amusement was about the last thing he felt. “I wasn’t dreaming. That woman was as real as you are, and she wasn’t pleased to find a naked cowboy in her bed, I can tell you that. Another second and she would have changed the shape of my skull.”

  Rue turned her head, looking at the necklace lying a few feet away on the carpet. “Farley, let’s throw the pendant away before something terrible—and irrevocable—happens. Surely the good people of Pine River hired a new marshal, and Jonathan and Elisabeth must have found a way to explain your disappearance.”

  Farley gathered Rue close and held her, taking comfort from the soft, fragrant, womanly substance of her. “We can’t do that, Rue,” he reasoned after a long time. “There’s no way of predicting what the consequences might be. Suppose somebody found it, a child maybe? No, we’ve got to hide that pendant and make damn sure it stays put.”

  She buried her face in his chest, that was all, but the surface of Farley’s skin quivered in response, and he felt himself come to attention. “I’m scared,” she said, her voice muffled by his flesh.

  Farley wanted Rue more than ever, having been separated from her by a wall of time, but he was strong and stubborn, and so were his convictions. The next time he made love to Rue, she would bear his name as well as the weight of his body.

  Her hand trailed slowly down over his chest and belly, leaving a sparkling trail of stardust in its wake. Then she captured him boldly.

  He groaned in glorious despair. “Damn it, Rue, let go.”

  She did not obey. “You’re bigger and stronger,” she teased in a whimpery voice. “But I declare, Marshal, I don’t see you trying to wrest yourself free of my sinful attentions.”

  Farley fully intended to pull her fingers away, but his hands went instead to the sides of her head. With a strangled cry, he kissed her, his tongue invading her mouth, plundering. And still she worked him mercilessly with her hand.

  He broke away from the kiss, gasping. “Oh, God, Rue—”

  She teased his navel with the tip of her tongue. “You promised not to make love to me again until we were married,” she said, and he trembled in anticipation, knowing what was going to happen. “I, on the other hand, never said anything of the kind.”

  Farley felt her moving downward and groaned, but he could not make himself stop her. When Rue took him, he gave a raspy cry of relief and surrendered to her.

  Later, Farley left the bed, showered and went about the business of running a ranch. Rue took a pair of tweezers from her makeup case, picked up the necklace, which was still lying on the floor where Farley had thrown it after his unscheduled flight into history, and dropped it gingerly into a big envelope.

  She held the envelope by a corner, carrying it downstairs and laying it on the desk in the study. She opened the safe hidden behind her grandmother’s bad painting of a bowl of grapes, expecting to find it empty since she had long since gone through all her grandfather’s papers. To her surprise, however, there was a thin envelope of white vellum inside, and when she pulled it out, a chill went through her.

  The handwriting on the front was old and faded and very familiar, and it read, “Miss Rue Claridge, Ribbon Creek, Montana.” There was even a zip code, a fact that might have made Rue smile if she hadn’t been so shaken. The date on the postmark was 1892.

  She let the other envelope, containing the necklace, drop forgotten to the floor and sank into a chair, her heart stuffed into her throat.

  Apparently the letter had been delivered to Gramps, and he’d saved it for her, probably never noticing the postmark or the antiquated ink.

  Rue drew in a deep breath and sat up very straight. If the letter had been delivered to the ranch, why hadn’t she found it before, when she’d settled Gramps’s affairs? Come to that, why was any of this happening at all?

  The only explanation Rue could think of was that Farley was going back to 1892 in the near future, if he hadn’t done so already. And this was the only way he could contact her, by writing a letter that would be misplaced and passed from person to person for a hundred years.

  Fingers trembling, Rue opened the envelope and pulled out a single, thin page. Stinging tears came instantly to her eyes. These words had been written a century before by a man she’d brazenly made love to only that morning.

  My Dearest Rue,

  I’m writing this to say goodbye, even though I know my words will be confusing to you when and if you ever lay eyes on them. Maybe you’ll not see this page at all, but I don’t mind admitting I take some comfort from the writing of it.

  I never meant to leave you forever, Rue, especially not on our wedding day; I want you to know that. My love for you is as constant as my breath and my heartbeat, and I will carry that adoration with me into the next world, where the angels will surely envy it.

  I have every confidence that if a child is born of our union, you will raise our son or daughter to be strong and full of honor.

  I’m staying here at the Pine River house, having been shot last week when there was a robbery at the bank. Oftentimes, I wonder if you’re in another room somewhere, just beyond the reach of my eyes and ears.

  When last I saw your cousin Lizzie, which was just a little while ago when she came to change my bandages, she was well. She saw that I was writing you and promised to help me think of a way to get the letter to you, and she asked me to give you her deepest regards.

  I offer mine as well.

  With love forever,

  Farley.

  Rue folded the letter carefully and tucked it back into the envelope, even though there was a wild fury of panic storming within her. She wanted to scream, to sob, to refuse to accept this fate, but she knew it would be useless.

  Farley was going back; the letter was tangible proof of that. And he was dying from the wounds he’d received during the robbery. He hadn’t come right out and said that, but she had read the truth between the lines.

  She pushed the envelope under the blotter on the desk. She wanted to confront Farley with what she’d discovered, but she couldn’t. For one thing, he hadn’t done anything wrong; it was his life, and if he wanted to go back to 1892 and throw it away in a gunfight with a pack of outlaws, that was his prerogative. No, Farley wasn’t the only one with integrity; Rue had it, too, and in those moments, the quality was her greatest curse.

  Rue paced. She could warn him. Maybe if she did that, he would at least avoid stumbling into that bank at the wrong moment and getting himself killed.

  Finally she remembered the registry at the graveyard in Pine River, got the number from information and put a call through. After half an hour and a string of hassles that heightened her frustration to new levels, a clerk in the church office finally unearthed an old record book and found Farley’s name in it.

  “Yes, he’s listed here,” the woman said pleasantly. “His grave would be out in the old section, under the oak tree. I hope that helps. It might be hard to find otherwise. Not everyone had a stone, you know, and a wooden marker would be l
ong gone.”

  Rue squeezed her eyes shut, almost overwhelmed by the images that were filling her mind. “Does the record list a cause of death?” she asked, her voice thin.

  “Gunshot wound to the chest,” the clerk replied after a pause. “He was attended by Dr. Jonathan Fortner, a man who played quite an important part in the history of Pine River—”

  “Thank you,” Rue said, unable to bear another word, even though it meant cutting the woman off in the middle of a sentence. Her eyes were awash in tears when she hung up the receiver. Soldier came and leaned against her leg, whining in sympathy.

  Rue knew it might be hours until Farley returned, and she couldn’t stand to stay in the house, so she went out to the woodshed and split enough firewood to last through a second ice age. When that was done, she started up the Land Rover, Soldier happily occupying the passenger seat, and headed out over roads of glaring ice.

  It took an hour to reach the hospital in the next town over from Pigeon Ridge. Leaving the dog in the Land Rover, Rue went inside and bought a card in the small gift shop, then asked to see Wilbur.

  He’d spent the night and most of the day in intensive care, a nurse told her, but she supposed one visit would be all right if Rue kept her stay brief.

  She found him in Room 447, and although there were three other beds, they were all empty. Wilbur looked small and forlorn, with tubes running into his nose and the veins of both his wrists.

  “Hello, Wilbur.” Rue set the card on his nightstand, then bent to kiss his forehead.

  He looked surprised at his misfortune, and helpless.

  Rue blinked back tears and patted his arm. “That’s all right, I know you can’t talk right now. I just wanted to stop by and to say hello and tell you not to worry about Soldier. I’m taking good care of him. In fact, he’s out in the car right now—it was as close as the nurses would let him get.”

  Wilbur made a funny noise low in his throat that might have been a chuckle.

  “I’d better go,” Rue said. “I know you need to rest and, besides, you won’t want me hanging around when all your girlfriends come in.” She touched his shoulder, then left the room. In a glance backward, she saw him reach awkwardly up to catch hold of the get-well card she’d brought.

  For all her activity, Rue had not forgotten Farley’s letter for a moment. She circled the thought the way a she wolf might move around a campfire, fascinated but afraid to get too close.

  The sun was out when Rue returned to the Land Rover, and the ice seemed to be thawing, but it still took forever to get home, because there were so many accidents along the way. When she and Soldier arrived, Farley and the other men were driving several hundred head of cattle into the big pasture west of the house, where a mountain of hay and troughs of fresh water awaited.

  Rue started toward Farley, fully intending to tell him about the letter she’d found in the safe, but the closer she got, the more convinced she became that it would be impossible. She could barely think of being parted from him, let alone talk about it.

  She stopped at the fence, listening to the bawling of the cattle, the yelling and swearing of the cowboys, the neighs and nickers of the horses. In those moments as she stood watching Farley work, she realized how simple the solution really was.

  All she had to do was destroy the necklace. Once that was done, there would be no way for Farley to return to 1892 and get himself shot.

  He rode over to look down at her, his face reddened by the cold and his mustache fringed with snow. His smile practically set her back on her heels.

  “Where have you been?” he asked. He didn’t sound annoyed, just curious.

  “I went in to see Wilbur at the hospital. He’s doing all right.” The words brought an image of a wounded Farley to mind, a man dying in another time and place, close enough to touch and yet so far away that even science couldn’t measure the distance.

  Farley shook his head. “You’ve got no business driving on these roads.”

  Rue wanted to weep, but she smiled instead. “Are you jealous, Farley?” she teased, stepping close to Lobo and running a finger down the inside of the marshal’s thigh. “Think I’m paying Wilbur too much attention?”

  Farley shivered, but Rue knew it wasn’t from the cold. He’d loved the game they’d played that morning, and her attempt to remind him of it had been successful. He bent down and exclaimed in a low voice, “You little wanton. I ought to haul you off to the woodshed and blister your bustle!”

  “Very kinky,” she said, her eyes twinkling even as tears burned at their edges. Then, before he could ask for the inevitable definition, she turned and walked toward the house.

  That night, the power stayed on and the wind didn’t blow. Rue and Farley curled up together on the couch in the big parlor and watched television. At least, Farley watched—Rue alternated between thinking about the necklace and about the letter hidden beneath the desk blotter.

  Although they didn’t make love, Farley seemed to know Rue would not be separated from him, and they shared the large bed in the master bedroom. He held her and for the time being that was enough.

  Contrary to her expectations, she slept, and the next thing she knew, Farley was kissing her awake.

  “Get up,” he said, his breath scented with toothpaste. “Today is our wedding day.”

  Some words from the letter he didn’t know he’d written echoed in Rue’s heart. “I never meant to leave you forever, especially not on our wedding day.” Unless she did something and soon, she would become Farley’s wife and his widow without turning a single page of the calendar in between.

  “I love you,” she said, because those were the only safe words.

  He kissed her lightly and quoted a mouthwash commercial they’d seen the night before. One thing about television, it had an immediate impact.

  Rue got out of bed, passed into the bathroom and brushed her teeth. When she came back, Farley was gone.

  Panic seized her. With another man, she would only have thought he’d left the room, or maybe the house. Farley might have left the century.

  Dressed in jeans and a warm woolen shirt, she raced into the hallway and down the stairs. “Farley!”

  He was in the kitchen, calmly sipping coffee, and he smiled at Rue with his eyes as he took in her furious expression. “A body would almost think you’d been left at the altar, the way you carry on when I get out of sight.”

  Looking up at him, Rue ached. Why did it all have to be so complicated? Other people had problems, sure, but not the kind that would have made an episode on Tales from the Crypt. “Farley, the necklace—”

  “I know where it is,” he said calmly. “The safe, behind that painting of the fruit.”

  Rue paled. “But you couldn’t have known the combination.”

  He had noticed her terror by then, and he reached out with his free hand to caress her jaw. “I found it when I went through the ranch records, Rue,” he said quietly. “I checked the safe to see if there were any more reports to go over.”

  Rue closed her eyes, swayed slightly and was steadied by Farley’s firm grip. “But the necklace is still there?” she asked evenly, reasonably. “You didn’t move it, did you?”

  “No,” he answered. “But I want your promise that you won’t move it again, either. I need to know where it is, Rue. Now, for the moment, all I want you thinking about is becoming my wife.” He bent his head, bewitched her with a soft kiss. “I hope you’re planning to wear something pretty, though. I draw the line at a bride wearing trousers.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Rue struggled to maintain her composure; in all her travels as a reporter, she’d never faced a greater challenge than this one. “Farley,” she began reasonably, “you’ve got to listen. If you go back to 1892, you’ll die.”

  He touched her face. “Everybody dies, darlin’,” he answered gently. “Considering that I was born in 1856, I’ve outlived a number of folks already.”

  She stepped back, raised her fingert
ips to her temples. It sounded as if Farley knew what was going to happen to him if he went back to 1892 and that he’d resigned himself to that fate. “You found the letter, too.”

  “By accident,” he said. “I spilled a cup of coffee on the desk, and when I moved the blotter, I came across an envelope with my own handwriting on it. I would have put it aside if it hadn’t been for that.”

  Rue sagged into one of the kitchen chairs. “You’d go back, knowing you were going to be shot by a bank robber and die of the wounds?”

  “I have to settle my affairs, Rue. I told you that. And I’m still the marshal of Pine River, as far as I know. God knows, it wasn’t a job the town council would be able to foist off on somebody else without a fight. If there’s a holdup, I’ll have to do whatever I can to intervene. Besides, I’ve been warned—I’ll just be more careful than usual.”

  Rue felt sick. This was supposed to be one of the happiest days of her life. And she was happy, because she wanted the legal and spiritual bond with Farley no matter what lay ahead—or behind—but she was terrified, as well.

  Apparently nothing would shake his determination to return to 1892. That left only one avenue open to his distraught bride-to-be.

  “I’m going with you, then.”

  “Rue—”

  “I mean, it, Farley,” she interrupted, rising so fast that her chair toppled over backward behind her. She didn’t pick it up.

  “I’m not marrying you so we can be apart. We belong together.”

  He looked at her for a long time, then sighed. “All right,” he agreed reluctantly. He kissed her, then left the house without breakfast.

  Rue was still inwardly frantic, but fortunately for her, she had things to do. She called the hospital for a progress report on Wilbur, who was doing well, then wired her mother, who had no doubt moved on from the spa to one of several favorite ski resorts.

  Giving the credit-card number to pay for the wire took longer than dictating the telegram itself, a fact that seemed ironic to Rue.