by Kristy Tate
Until strong arms picked her up—then her eyes flew open.
“I don’t know what to do with you,” the Paul creature said more to himself than to her. “But I know I can’t leave you on the bank of the creek, and I gotta git. Earlene’ll be wondering.” He chuckled. “I was supposed to be catching dinner, and you are not a fine kettle of fish.”
Which was fine with Becca, since she thought fish smelled. She closed her eyes again, and promised herself that the next time she opened them she would be sane.
#
Becca woke beneath a pile quilts.
“I jest didn’t know what to do with her,” the Paul Bunyan voice said.
“You done right,” a female voice answered. “Poor little lamb. A pretty thing. Someone’s gotta be missing her.”
“I ain’t heard about anyone gone missing,” Paul said. He let out a great sigh. “I best be going into town to ask around.”
“And picking up a pint or two?”
“Hey, Silvia’s where all the scuttle-butt is. If I be hearing anything, I’ll be hearing it there, first.”
“Go to, then husband.”
“But what if you be needing Nelly?”
“We’ll be fine. Mrs. Goodson’s time is weeks away.”
“That’s what you said about Mrs. Lawson, and her baby came nigh three months before the figuring.”
“First babies are always early.” Becca thought she heard a smile in Earlene’s voice.
“They’d only been married a month or two.”
“Now, Ned, you know it was more than that.”
“Not much.”
“You just git. Pick yourself up a brew or two, and ask around about this little miss. We’ll find her home and people.”
Becca drifted off to sleep before Ned was out the door.
#
She woke to darkness and eerie quiet. Blinking, she tried to process her surroundings, and listened for the sounds her house made in the night: the humming refrigerator, the quiet clicking battery operated clock, the distant rumbling traffic on the 95 Throughway. But not even crickets chirped.
Becca sat up and immediately took note of three things: one, she wore only her bra and panties, two, the air on the other side of the quilt was biting cold, and three, she lay in a room that looked like it had popped out of a Little House on the Prairie episode. Rough-hewn wooden floors and walls, a black potbelly in the corner, a rocking chair beside the stove. She flopped back down on the pillows and put her hand to her forehead.
Was she still in the throes of a delusional episode? Did she have a fever?
Wrapping the quilt around her shoulders, she braved the chill and padded over to the window. The moon hung in the star-studded indigo sky. She had never seen a sky so brightly lit. Her gaze swept over the barn, a fenced pasture, and the distant, shadowy, towering mountains.
I’m not in Connecticut, she thought. Searching for a logical explanation, she studied the mountains. Could they be the Rockies? As in Colorado? That made more sense than anything else. Her subconscious mind knew that she had to go to Colorado for her father’s funeral, and so when her body had a break down, her mind took her to where it thought she needed to go.
That made sense.
Sort of.
Much more sense than Celia’s blabbering about time-traveling to Cornwall and Merlin’s Cave. Regency England was just crazy talk.
Happy with her reasoning, Becca padded back to the bed, wondering about Ned and Earlene. Where were they? Had she displaced them from their only bed? And what era was she in? Her gaze sought for signs of electricity or modern technology. Outlets on the roughly hewn log walls? No. Battery operated anything? No. In fact, it looked as if a curtain separated the bedroom from the main room.
She climbed back in bed, pulled the quilt around her shoulders and took in her surroundings. A pitcher and bowl stood on a three-legged table. Becca had a thought and looked underneath the bed to find a chamber pot hiding in a corner. Laying back against the pillows, her toes found something sharing her bed. She investigated and found a pile of rocks wrapped in cloth.
Becca took all of this evidence and considered it. She had an imagination, but it had never been this good. Even as a child, she’d chosen games with rules and toys over imaginative play. She liked tangible things and preferred facts over esoteric thoughts. What had pushed her into crazy town?
Then she remembered the legend of the Witching Well. Supposedly, the water held the same alkaloids found in LSD that caused hallucinations. So, it was true. The tainted well water really did spurn the hysteria of the young girls back in the ages where witches were burned.
Good thing she wasn’t in those dark times. Good thing this was all just a wild trip that she could wait out.
Becca closed her eyes and prayed that she would wake soon. She’d never experimented with drugs, and had never even taken anything stronger than an extra-strength Tylenol. During her residency, she knew some of her fellow interns would swill energy drinks to help them stay awake and alert during their long shifts, but Becca hadn’t even done that. She loved and trusted her body. If she could get through her residency program without going bonkers, she could get through this, too.
#
She woke when a pink smudge stained the sky. Sitting up, she smelled bacon frying in the next room. Swinging her feet over the bed and bracing against the cold, Becca stood and reached for her dress hanging over the back of the chair.
Her bright red Adidas shoes stood near the curtain and looked ridiculously out of place. She put them on anyway. After finger combing her thick hair as she’d learned to do in medical school when she’d been frantically busy and barely had time to shower, she braided it into one long strand and headed for the curtain.
Ned sat at the table in front of a plate towering with food. Eggs, bacon strips, hash browns, and something unrecognizable. Earlene stood beside a large black stove stirring a steaming pot. She turned to give Becca a smile full of pity.
“Ah, there she is,” Ned said, setting down his mug, “the biggest fish I ever done caught.”
Becca wondered how old Ned and Earlene might be. Their weather-beaten skin told her nothing. Ned must have carried her here, so he had to be strong. Earlene also looked sturdy and solid. Both had gray weaved through their hair, but Becca knew that gray could arrive at almost any age after puberty.
Earlene wiped her hands on her apron and hurried forward to take Becca’s hand.
“I’m Earlene,” she said, her grip warm and friendly, “and I’m right pleased to meet you.”
“I’m Becca Martin.” Becca read their confusion in both of their expressions. “It’s short for Rebecca. You can call me that, if you’d like.”
“I don’t know any Martins,” Earlene said.
“Maybe she hails from Denver. Nowadays, there are a lot of people we don’t know in Denver.”
Sadness filled Earlene’s eyes. “It’s gotten so big.”
Ned wagged his head and looked as downcast as his wife. He raised his gaze to Becca. “There was a time when we knew pert-near everyone round here. Not so anymore.”
“You best sit down and tell us all about yourself so we can get you home,” Earlene said. “I bet your people are wondering something fierce.”
Becca’s thoughts scrambled for a response. She couldn’t tell them the truth, but she hated to lie. “My dad lived in Trouthaven. Do you know where that is?”
“Trout-heaven-help-us-what?” Ned asked.
“Trouthaven. Have you heard of it?”
When Earlene and Ned both shook their heads, Becca continued, “I was on my way to his funeral when I…well, I don’t recall what happened.”
“Did you have traveling companions?” Earlene asked.
Becca shook her head.
“Where are you from?” Ned asked.
“Connecticut.”
Earlene bent over her pot. “And you were coming out here all on your own?”
Becca nodded.
&nbs
p; “Well, the best we can do is feed you. You’re a wisp of a thing.”
“I don’t want to impose…”
“Stuff and nonsense, child,” Earlene said. “Let’s get you a plate and fatten you up. That dress looks like it’s going to fall off you.”
“Thank you. Everything smells and looks delicious,” Becca said. “What are you making?” She nodded at the pot.
Ned snorted.
“You don’t want these,” Earlene said smiling at her bubbling brew. “These are stockings. Let’s get you some victuals.”
Becca accepted a breakfast plate and sat down across from Ned. The wooden chair squeaked beneath her weight.
“Where about in Connecticut?” Ned asked.
“Woodinville.”
“Is that close to New York City?”
“Sort of.” Becca stirred her eggs with her fork. They looked just like the eggs she made at home. Typically, she didn’t eat bacon, but she decided that eating whatever she wanted was one of the perks of being delusional. Of course, she wasn’t likely to find lobster or maraschino cherry chocolate cheesecake in the Wild, Wild West.
“You know, I can remember some things, but others are just a blank for me,” Becca said.
“Selective memory,” Earlene said. “I heard of that.”
“Yes—amnesia, probably caused by a head trauma.” Or water from the Witching Well.
“Why don’t you fill us in on what you do know,” Ned said.
“Okay. First, I’m a doctor.”
“A doctor?” Ned and Earlene both said at the same time.
Becca nodded. “My father trained me. He was a doctor, too.”
“In this Trout place?” Ned asked.
“No…he was a doctor in New York City. He moved to Trouthaven a few years ago.”
“And you were following him?” Earlene asked.
“And that’s where things get fuzzy,” Becca said. “I remember getting on a train.” She tried to recall the transcontinental railway history and came up blank. “But I can’t even remember what year this is, or who’s the president.”
Ned whistled through his teeth and Earlene slowly shook her head and patted Becca’s shoulder.
“It’s 1870, and Ulysses Grant is president of the United States.”
“But—is Colorado a state? Or is this still a territory?” Becca’s mind raced. And what about Indians? Were they friendly? And measles, diphtheria, small pox, polio—
A knock on the front door interrupted Becca’s mounting fears.
Earlene stood, wiped her hands on her apron and went to answer. A sharp breeze blew in when she pulled open the door.
A man stood on the porch, his hat in his hands, and an apologetic look on his face.
“It’s my Betsy,” he said. “It’s time.”
“Let me get my things.” Earlene wiped her hands on her apron and hurried through a curtained doorway to what Becca guessed was their bedroom. Moments later, she emerged with a carpet bag in her hand and a bonnet on her head. She threw a parting glance at Ned and Becca before saying goodbye.
Becca stood. “Do you want me to come with you? I am, after all a doctor.”
Earlene shook her head, and her expression clearly showed her lack of faith in Becca’s doctoring ability. She gently closed the door, leaving Becca and Ned to themselves.
Becca swallowed. “If you’ll show me how to clean these dishes, I’ll be happy to do that for you.” Even if this was all a delusion, she could still try and be helpful. Who knew how long she would need a place to stay, and something to eat? If she really was trapped in 1870—even if it was just in her head—she would need friends, people who knew how to do simple things like how to manage without flushing toilets.
“I’m happy to let you do the ladies’ work.” Ned stood.
Becca followed him to the back porch. He pulled out a large copper tub, a block of something evil smelling, a rag, and a bucket. After nodding at a pump across the yard, he put his hands in his pockets and headed for the barn, whistling.
Becca pumped water into the bucket, filled the tub, and scrubbed the dishes with the vile smelling soap. As soon as she had stacked the last pan to dry, Ned emerged from the barn, making her wonder if he’d been watching and waiting for the completion of the “woman’s work.” Becca glanced down at her red and wrinkly hands. She had to get home before the soap destroyed her skin.
“Well, you ‘bout ready to head into town?” Ned asked.
“Yes, of course, but I’m not sure what I’ll do there. I haven’t any money.”
“I reckoned as much, but we can still look around. Maybe you’ll bump into someone you recognize. I’m thinking you should be talking to the sheriff.”
“Ned, it’s so nice of you to let me stay here. I’ll try to repay you.” She fingered her gold locket. It had belonged to her grandmother. The thought of selling it made her ill, but if she had to, she would. Gold was gold, even in 1870.
“Now, me and Earlene, we just doing our Christian duty,” Ned told her.
But for how long? Becca wondered. None of this is real, she reminded herself. She didn’t have to worry about the niceties with the figments of her imagination.
“I’m ready to go whenever you are,” she told Ned.
#
The wagon rattled behind the team of horses, and Becca sat beside Ned. He didn’t speak, and she was glad. She loved the peace, and enjoyed the scenery as they rolled past. The mountains towered overhead and pine trees reached for the sky. Vibrant golds, reds, and yellows colored the foothills. Falling leaves fluttered in the breeze and scattered across the dirt path that led toward town. The wild natural beauty tugged at Becca’s heart. Was her father’s ranch in a place as beautiful as this? Why hadn’t she ever been to visit him?
She inhaled sharply and felt the pine-scented air fill her lungs. She knew why she hadn’t been to visit her dad. She had work. She had debt. She had a million and one reasons why a trip to Colorado was out of reach.
And now—here she was, whether she wanted to be or not. She knew the power of the mind better than most. She knew it enough to respect and fear it. Her mind and heart told her to go to Colorado, even as her pocketbook and calendar told her to stay and work. Her mind and heart had won.
With its timber buildings and dusty streets, the settlement of Everwood reminded Becca of a combination of the TV set for the old HBO show, Deadwood, the movie Butch Cassidy and the Sun Dance Kid, and Bear Country at Disneyland.
The men wore dusty clothes and sported long ratty beards. They watched Ned’s wagon roll by with open-mouths and unflinching stares. Of course, she reminded herself, this is just a delusion, so of course I’d go someplace where the men are women-hungry. Why didn’t I make them, if not handsome, then at least clean?
Ned pulled up beside a place with swinging doors. Tinny piano music and laughter came from inside. A tavern, Becca guessed. She looked at the sun, trying to read the time. It couldn’t even be noon.
“I’ll meet you back here in an hour or two,” Ned said as he helped her down. His gaze followed hers into the tavern.
“You know it’s against the law for a proper woman to go in there, don’t you?”
“No,” Becca said slowly. “I didn’t know that.” She thought she caught a glimpse of a woman in a red and black striped skirt and white blouse pulled off her shoulders sitting on top of the piano.
“If you be wanting to hold your head up around these parts, you’ll wait for me out here.” Ned nodded at a bench across the street.
It seemed like a double standard, but Becca nodded in agreement.
Ned disappeared behind the swinging doors and a cheer erupted as many of the men called out his name.
Becca stood on the boardwalk, wondering what to do or where to go. Down the street, she spotted a building with bars on the windows. A sign read, Bartlett’s Savings and Loans. Fingering her locket, Becca headed for the bank.
She stopped at the street corner, trying to process her surr
oundings and circumstances. She had always been this way—desiring to observe first and join in second—choosing a classroom seat at the side of the room that allowed her to watch her fellow students and gage the class’s dynamics. In any task, she had to absorb and learn first before she could begin, and if something changed or went off course, she always had to stop and reevaluate before she could continue. She’d never been a go-with-the-flow or fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants sort of girl. Usually, after deciding what she wanted, she’d chart the most logical, practical steps to her prize and dog after it. This had worked for her. Mostly. It had carried her through college, med school, and residency. But it had not won her Joel’s heart.
And how did one go about finding the steps to sanity? How did one make a flow chart that led to reality?
Becca found a bench and sat down. Clasping her gold locket, she decided that she couldn’t sell it. Maybe that meant that she’d have to sponge off Ned and Earlene’s generosity, but since they were her own mental creations, she could take advantage of them. In real life, she was way too proud to accept charity, but in this situation…
Her gaze swept over the bustling street. Wagons rolled by, their wheels stirring up dust. Horses plodded past—some attached to the wagons, and some manned by a lone rider. A black smith shop stood on the corner, his forge sending orange and red flames into the air, and his hammer ringing. Pies and loaves of bread lined the bakery’s window. A farmer had a wagon piled with dirty spotted vegetables parked near the town’s center.
“Pardon me.” The voice was male, well-educated and strained, as if in pain and shock.
Becca looked around, and saw no one. She stood.
“I’m in dire need of a favor,” the voice said.
Becca knew and recognized the quivering voice of pain. She’d held the hands of dying patients, and learned the tone and cadence of those who had given up hope. Of course, there were also con men, consummate actors and criminals, and she supposed that those men were just as common in 1870 as they were in the twenty-first century. Still, if this person was injured…
