Lost Yesterday

by Jenny Lykins

  Marin's only reaction was an infinitismal shake of her head and a dazed look of confusion. Dale Gibson swung a chair around behind her just in time to catch the bustle that sank with a thud onto the petit-pointe upholstery.

  She was engaged! And this man was calling her Mari. How in the world would she ever explain this to Hunter? And how many other people from St. Louis would crop up to haunt her?

  Questions and doubts hurdled through Marin's mind while she sat there with eight sets of eyes trained on her. Unfortunately, no answers accompanied those questions. As her thoughts raced for some coherent, plausible remark, Niles knelt beside her and cupped her face with his hands, his knee and boots buried in the depths of her skirts.

  "Mari, ye look as though ye've seen a banshee. Ye canna be telling me ye've changed yer mind."

  The air in the room smothered her as she tried to force words past the lump in her throat. All she could manage was a tiny shake of her head as she looked back and forth from Hunter's completely emotionless face to that of the total stranger.

  A trickle of sweat slid between her breasts, another formed at her temple and zig-zagged along her hairline. The room shrank and the men crowded in on her, then the absolute worst thing she could think of happened.

  "Hunter, I would like to be introduced to our newest guest. I understand he is Miss Alexander's betrothed." Lucille gave her a carnivorous smile from the doorway before she turned to Niles. "How strange she never spoke of her intentions to marry."

  Marin began to seriously consider whether or not she could faint convincingly. Should she roll her eyes up in their sockets first or just slide out of the chair?

  "Perhaps, Mother, it was due to the fact that it is none of our business." Hunter's cold eyes never left Marin as he introduced Niles.

  Maybe she wouldn't have to fake a faint. Maybe she would just shrivel up and disappear before their eyes.

  "Mr. Kilpatrick," Hunter went on, "I am afraid Miss Alexander suffered an accident upon her arrival here. Head injuries can often be unpredictable in - "

  "Who is Miss Alexander?" Niles asked, his brow lowered in confusion.

  The only sound in the room was the ticking of the mantle clock, then the rustling thud as Marin slid to the floor.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It wasn't exactly faked, but then again she hadn't exactly fainted either. Damn near knocked herself out, though, when she went for the realism.

  Between all the events of the past week, including the tender stitches still on her forehead and the arrival of an unknown fiancé, Marin had felt that light-headed, disconnected warning. But it would take more than a little exertion and a surprise visitor to send her into a swoon. However, not directing her limp slide to the floor a little farther from the edge of the dining room table was a miscalculation her head could have done without.

  The hardest part had been remembering to stay limp when Hunter carried her up to bed. And, for Pete's sake, that had only been after Hunter and Niles nearly dismembered her in a tug-o-war over who should do the honors. Hunter won with an explosive, "For God's sake, Kilpatrick, let me get her to her chambers!"

  Now she concentrated on not wrapping her arms around Hunter's warm, masculine neck and dragging him down with her as he carefully settled her onto the fluffy, feather mattress. There was no doubt a considerable audience to these goings-on. Marin had been keenly aware of the sound of numerous feet storming the stairs behind Hunter, as well as the thump, thud, thump, thud, of Lionel Jacobs bringing up the rear on his crutch. There was also the fact that the room now hummed with the uneasiness of a bunch of helpless men confronted with an unconscious female.

  One irritated, not-so-helpless voice grated in the silence.

  "Send for Dr. Ritter, Ambrose. I vow, at this rate we shall have to put him on retainer."

  Damn! The lemon-sucker strikes again.

  *******

  She hoped she looked convincingly "passed out." It wasn't like she was an expert at simulating a swoon. But of even more concern to her was what to say when she "came to." She needed time to rehearse. While she was draped, rag doll fashion, across the counterpane, her mind tested and tossed out dozens of speeches.

  Deep in thought, she didn't anticipate the vile smelling bottle thrust under her nose. The stench of ammonia burned all the way to her lungs and sent her into such a violent fit of coughing she nearly rolled off the bed.

  Once the worst was over she fell back, panting. Tears still blurred her eyes when she opened them, then she had to fight the urge to try her hand at simulating a coma.

  Dr. Ritter's skeletal hand held the bottle, ready for another dose of toxic fumes. But the coma-inviting sight that met her was Hunter and Niles, side-by-side, crowded so close to Dr. Ritter they looked like a bizarre set of Siamese triplets.

  Niles was right next to the doctor, his concerned eyes searching her face. It was obvious he held himself in check to keep from touching her.

  Hunter stood farthest from her, though still only inches away. His unblinking gaze, indifferent and cold, was like a hammer to the center of Marin's chest. His only movement was the fingers on his right hand squeezing into a tight fist.

  What she wouldn't give to have Niles's anxious look flicker for just a second in Hunter's icy blue eyes. Would she ever see those crescent-shaped dimples that could appear with only the barest hint of a smile? She resolved, once this mess was over, to go in search of those irresistible dents in his face and prove to herself, once and for all, that they were not a figment of her imagination.

  "Well now, I know symmetry is a must in fashion, my dear, but I don't believe anyone expects you to obtain matching stitches on your forehead."

  Dr. Ritter chuckled at his wit while he examined his patient's eyes and checked her pulse. He poked around on the tender bump above her left eyebrow. At least she hadn't hit the same side as the stitches, but that didn't keep her from having a throbbing headache.

  "Now I'm certain there is no concussion this time, but I expect you to stay in bed for at least a day."

  Marin cringed at the thought.

  "But all I did was bump my head!"

  "After fainting, which indicates to me that you were in no condition to be conducting a dinner party."

  She'd forgotten about the fainting part. And the dinner party. She glanced around, looking for the audience she'd heard earlier. Everyone was gone except Hunter and Niles, and Dr. Ritter of course - all three still attached at the hip. Hunter's stare hadn't changed. She started to run her fingers through her hair but only managed to tangle them in the braids and loops.

  "I'm sorry I ruined your business dinner. Perhaps we can possibly reschedule - "

  "Nothing has been ruined. In fact, my guests are still here. They all refused to leave until they were assured you were not in danger."

  Such total lack of emotion when he spoke. How could this man be her mischievous ghost, who'd shown more emotion in one speechless encounter than the flesh and blood man had in the week she'd spent here?

  This was a bad dream. It was the only explanation. She was in the hospital, on some heavy duty drugs, and this was just a result of that. That's it. A bad dream. In fact, if she tried real hard she could probably hear the beep of monitors and smell the disinfectant; maybe even hear some doctor being paged.

  "All right, gentlemen. Let's leave the little lady to her rest." Dr Ritter fastened his satchel, and Mamie walked in as if on cue bearing a tray with a teapot and cup.

  Niles spoke up for the first time, anxiety written all over his face.

  "I'll be wantin' a word with me Mari, if you don't mind, Doctor. I've not seen her now for six months - "

  "So another few hours won't make much difference." Dr. Ritter clapped Niles on the back and guided him toward the door. "Her rest is of utmost importance, and tomorrow will be soon enough to enjoy a tender reunion. I will be back to check on you then, my dear, and we shall get those blasted stitches out while I'm at it."

  Niles left with reluctan
ce, throwing backward glances over his shoulder at Marin.

  "I'll be thinkin' of ye, Mari me love," he said as he rounded the door.

  Hunter was the last to leave. He stood near the foot of the bed, where he'd been all along, and looked at Marin. Just looked. No emotion whatsoever. No look of accusation, distrust, disgust or even concern. He might have been staring at a nail on the wall, for all the animation in his face. Before Marin could speak he turned on his heel and walked to the door. His steps slowed only long enough for him to comment, and even then he spoke with his back to her.

  "If Kilpatrick has nowhere else to stay, I will see to it that a room is made ready for him...Mari."

  The last word held no animosity, but Marin literally felt the thin thread of trust that had formed between them snap and recoil.

  There was no chance for her to speak. His stiff back disappeared around the door, and he was gone before she could catch the breath he'd knocked out of her.

  What could she have said, anyway...

  *******

  "I know you won't believe me, but I'm from 1996."

  Her eyes never wavered from his. Sitting across from him in her bedroom, she tried to look as sane and sincere as possible.

  The sun shone in a cloudless morning sky the color of Hunter's eyes, a breeze from the open window stirred his dark, touchable hair, and they both sat there ignoring the fact that his presence in her bedroom was completely unacceptable. But she'd wanted privacy for this confession, and this was the last place the lemon-sucker would look for him.

  His silence was almost palpable following her statement until he blinked once, inclined his head and said, "Indeed."

  Her heart sank, and she couldn't stop a frustrated sigh. She'd known better. What had she expected him to do - slap her on the back and say, "Well, hey! Why didn't you say so before now?" She closed her eyes, shook her head and plowed on.

  "I don't expect you to believe me. I barely believe it myself. In fact, I don't even know what to believe." She shrugged and waited a moment to see if he had a reaction. He didn't. "All I know is, I was in an accident in 1996, and I woke up in 1876. My name isn't Mari Alexa Sander, but apparently I'm in her body because I really have light brown hair and gray eyes, and I'm at least three inches taller.

  "I've never laid eyes on Niles Kilpatrick before last night, but apparently he and Mari are engaged, but I don't know where Mari is.

  "Hey, I'm not even sure where I am! I may be in a coma in the hospital and just hallucinating all this. That would make the most sense, wouldn't it?"

  Good God, she sounded like a raving lunatic, even to herself. Why hadn't she thought this thing through better before opening her big mouth?

  He continued to stare at her, but now the barest glimmer of amusement lit his eyes. She would have questioned if there was even a change in his expression, except that one elusive dimple hinted at its existence. Yes, there was a definite, crescent-shaped indentation in his left cheek.

  The subtle alteration changed his whole countenance. She could see her mischievous ghost behind the stoic facade, and her heart rate leapt to aerobic level. The already humid air heated up a few more degrees. She forgot about her confession and relived the exchange the two of them had shared on the front lawn.

  "Well, Miss... I'm sorry. What is your name today?"

  Marin came crashing back to reality. She wasn't sure which irritated her more - his interrupting her knee-weakening revery or his sarcastic question delivered with such a bland expression.

  "Marin. My name is Marin. Always has been, always will be," she said through clenched teeth.

  "Ahhh. Marin. Of course. Well, Marin, I can understand changing your mind about marrying someone, but I must tell you that when it comes to devising an excuse, the usual rule of thumb is that less is more." He leaned forward in the chair conspiratorially, a hand planted on each knee. When he spoke again his voice was not much more than a whisper. "In this case you may have gone a tad over the line. Believability should be your watchword. Unless, of course, you want him to think you've gone mad. Would you like for me to help you construct a more convincing story?"

  Both dimples were in deep evidence now, flanking the most condescending grin she'd seen since Ryan had laughed at her fear over his last desert mission.

  Anger exploded in her mind - at Ryan for dying and at Hunter for his supercilious attitude. She narrowed her eyes and glared at him while her temper settled under control.

  "Am I fired?" she asked, her voice dripping icicles.

  "Excuse me?"

  Ha! She threw him off guard with that one.

  "Am I fired? Terminated? Canned? Lost my position?"

  He sank back onto the green and white striped satin chair, obviously perplexed at this sudden change of tone and direction in the conversation.

  "Well?"

  "Of course not. Your work since your arrival has been exemplary, but I fail to see what - "

  "What I told you is the truth. I don't expect you to believe it, but I don't intend to change my story. Bearing that in mind, do you still want to employ me?"

  Hunter stared at her, clearly sizing up whether she was indeed insane or just incredibly strange. He shook his head as he rose from the chair and walked to the door.

  "I fail to understand what purpose this tale serves, and I have enough trouble with my mother stirring up ill will toward the Pierce name." He grabbed the porcelain doorknob before turning back to her. His face was an unreadable mask. Marin held her breath and thought she might scream before he finally spoke.

  "You may retain your position with the stipulation that your...story...not be repeated."

  Marin didn't hesitate. She knew there was nowhere for her to go if he kicked her out. She, or rather Mari, had very little money, and Marin knew no other way to earn an income in the 1800's. At least none she was willing to do.

  "Very well," she said. It was hard to keep the relief from her voice, so she raised her chin to a stubborn angle.

  Hunter nodded once and yanked open the door.

  Lucille Pierce stood on the other side, her mean eyes glittering, her mouth pursed.

  "And what story would that be?" she asked.

  Hunter balled his fist at the sight of his mother.

  "It is a story, Mother, that is not going to be repeated. If you did not hear it while eavesdropping then you are doomed to forever wonder what it is you're missing out on." He shoved passed her and flicked the door closed behind him.

  These women would have him in an asylum soon. Perhaps he would be in the same one as Marin. She would surely end up in one if she continued to spread that ridiculous fairy tale.

  "Hunter Pierce! I have a right to know what is going on in this house! Benjamin Hunter Pierce!"

  Her voice faded as his strides ate up the length of the hall. He descended the stairs at a fast clip.

  Why had he not dismissed Marin on the spot? He could not credit his behavior. If a friend came to him with the story of employing a woman who wrote under one name, came to work under another, then claimed she was from the future he would advise that friend to dismiss the lunatic immediately, and without a reference.

  Instead, he couldn't even summon up the outrage he knew he should feel. After all, she'd had a head injury. Surely that was the cause for her strange behavior. Surely.

  He clumped down the center of the staircase, wanting nothing more than to be left alone. But it was not to be. Ambrose advanced on him, a small silver tray held aloft with a single, black-edged calling card in the center. Hunter held in the moan that rose in his throat.

  "I am not at home, Ambrose. Whoever it is, send them away."

  "I's sorry, Mistah Hunt, but she - "

  "Was hoping you wouldn't turn her out."

  A chill of dread crawled across his neck at the familiar, feminine voice. Even though it had been over five years since he'd heard it, there was no mistaking that voice.

  He studied the silver tray and calling card that still hovered in
front of him. It couldn't be her. She wouldn't have the nerve to come back here.

  His lip curled in disgust before he finally turned his head and met her eyes.

  "Delia. How very unpredictable of you." He stepped down to plant both feet on the floor, then shifted his weight to his left foot, his stance deceptively casual. "If I remember correctly, the last time we parted you were retching at the sight of me. Forgive me if I don't anticipate what you have in store for me this time."

  She at least had the decency to look uncomfortable.

  As she stood there, wringing her hands in the doorway of the parlor, he scanned her body from head to toe.

  It was hard to imagine what he had seen in this woman. Yet he had once planned to marry her, until she broke off the engagement. The face whose image had kept him alive during his recovery from his war wounds had contorted with barely disguised revulsion at the sight of the still-livid scars puckering his skin.

  Her face - once so precious - now failed to stir any warm feelings at all. Not because the blond of her hair had lost some of its sheen, or because her pale skin looked more gray than porcelain. It was because she had turned her back on him when he needed her most, then returned five years ago to do it again. She'd killed the love in him. She and his mother.

  "To what do I owe this questionable pleasure, Delia? Should I go in search of a shield now, to keep your knife from my back, or are you saving that for later?"

  Delia started to speak, then glanced up to the landing. Hunter's mother stood under the glistening chandelier, her back ramrod straight as she glared at the two of them.

  "Could we possibly speak in the parlor, Hunter?" Delia's voice sounded thready. She muffled a delicate cough as she followed him through the archway. He slid the pocket doors closed with a decisive bang.

  He turned an emotionless gaze to her. She settled her black gown around her as she sank onto the deep peach settee. The black of her gown washed her features out to the point of peakedness. With a bit of a jolt he remembered the black-edged calling card. He knew she was a widow. She’d been a widow five years ago. But he was certain this mourning attire was not for that long-dead husband.