by Kristy Tate
“I don’t really want to think about Connelly right now, but, yes, we can tell the sheriff that you’re free to go.”
She laid her palm against his cheek. “Did you…?”
“Kill him?” He took her hand, turned it over, and kissed her palm. Then he laced his fingers through hers. “No. Someone else did that honor.”
“Oh, good. I’m glad.”
“Where you staying? Still not at the jail, are you?”
“I have an attic room at the Dove’s Inn. It only has a twin bed.”
He pulled her in that direction. “I’m okay with that. For now.”
“Me, too.” She hurried to keep up with him, and her insides melted a fraction more as he purposefully strode toward the boardinghouse. “Oh, but wait. Sheriff Lawson invited me to stay with him.”
Warwick halted. “What?”
Becca patted his chest, aware of how that must have sounded to him. “And his wife, Amy.”
“Why?”
Becca took a deep breath and told him about the man with the southern drawl who had made her so nervous.
“Brownlow,” Warwick breathed out the name and made it sound like a curse.
“He can’t hurt us,” Becca said. “He won’t murder us in a crowded inn.”
Warwick resumed walking, although now a little slower. “I need to talk to the sheriff.”
“Now?” She looked up and down the deserted street and lowered her voice, although she guessed only the alley cat and mangy dog might hear. “Don’t you have other needs?”
He smiled at her and picked up his pace. “You want to have a bath drawn for me while I go and talk to Lawson?”
She blew out a sigh as he deposited her in front of the inn’s double doors. Inside, someone was playing a piano and music along with smells of beef stew and warm bread floated through the window.
He kissed her on the tip of her nose. “I’ll be back shortly.”
A single gunshot rang through the air, silencing the music. The man that Becca had seen first at Mia’s wedding, then on the road to Judson’s house, and finally at the Dove’s Inn pointed his revolver at Warwick and shot him a second time through the heart. Blood spurted, staining Warwick’s shirt.
Warwick grabbed his chest and stumbled backwards. Becca caught him and eased him to the ground, her tears falling onto his face.
“I’ll save you,” she said. “I’ve done it before…I can do it again.”
“No. Go, run, hide. He will kill you, too, just like he killed Mary Kate.”
Becca shook her head, and fumbled with buttons on Warwick’s shirt. “No…this isn’t happening…none of this is real.”
Maniacal laughter followed by another gunshot. Pain, more imagined than real, tore through Becca. She closed her eyes against the agony. When she opened them again, she lay on the bank beside the Witching Well.
CHAPTER 11
Becca turned to watch Celia emerge from the well. The fading sun sparkled on the water, but a cold breeze stirred through the trees. Becca shivered, sat up, and hugged her knees.
Celia kicked to the side of the well and pulled herself up. Her wet dress clung to her body, and her hair hung in wet ringlets.
Becca stared at her, a dozen questions rocketing in her head.
“Are you okay?” Celia asked, coming to stand beside her.
Becca shook her head. “I don’t think so. How about you?”
“That depends.” Celia flopped beside Becca on the bank.
“Depends on what?”
Celia closed her eyes. “Jason.”
Becca nudged her. “I think you’re going to be okay.”
Celia’s eyes flew open as Jason pulled himself from the well. Celia launched herself at him.
He caught her in his arms and kissed her.
“Well, that certainly looks like a happy ending,” Becca said to no one in particular. She hoped no one could hear the bitterness in her voice.
Celia looked as if she couldn’t decide whether to laugh or kiss Jason. She chose the latter.
“Oh my hell!” Mia stood in the clearing, her hands on her hips and rage coloring her expression. “You went swimming in my bridesmaid dress? I knew you hated it…but this is outrageous!”
“That’s not that outrageous,” Joel, who followed his sister, said. He waved his finger at Celia and Jason. “But this is.”
Mrs. Fleur clapped her hands. “This is exactly what I knew would happen.”
“No, you didn’t,” Mia said.
“You saw this coming?” Joel asked.
“Of course, I did,” Mrs. Fleur said.
Jason looked at Celia and touched his nose to hers. “She couldn’t possibly have known.”
“What? That I can’t live without you?” Celia asked, ignoring her family on the side of the hill.
“I didn’t want to live without you, either,” Jason said.
“Good thing you won’t have to,” Celia said.
“What about unloading the truck? What about the shop?” Mia asked.
“Aren’t you supposed to be on your honeymoon?” Celia asked.
Mia pressed her lips closed as a wave of sadness washed over her expression.
“I’ve decided not to use the barn,” Celia said. “I’d rather run the shop out of Mrs. Fleur’s house. We can use the attic to store inventory and we can use the guest bedroom as a fitting room. I won’t need a lot of space since we’ll run most everything online. Besides, I’m going to focus more on designing than retail. Someone I trust told me I have an eye for design.”
While her brother and sister just stared at her, Mrs. Fleur smiled. “That’s my girl.”
“Come on,” Celia said. “Let’s go back to the house and unload the truck.” She took Jason’s hand. “I can’t wait to start our new life.”
Jason looked over his shoulder at the well. The sun glistened on the water, birds darted through the trees, and a light breeze fluttered the leaves. “Do you think we’ll ever drink from the Witching Well again?”
Celia shook her head. “No need. We have everything we could ever want right here and right now.”
#
Long after everyone else left, Becca remained sitting by the well. No one had noticed that she wore a blue gown. No one came back looking for her. Loneliness and longing tugged at her.
Slowly, she rose to her feet. She started to leave when a sound stopped her. Turning, she caught glimpse of something that she thought she’d never see again.
A black cowboy hat floated on the water.
Becca hurried down the path and caught up with Joel. Taking hold of his arm, she pulled him back to the well. “Do you see that hat?”
“What hat?” Joel asked.
Becca blinked. The hat was gone.
None of it was real.
Putting her hand on her belly, feelings of loss swept over her. She struggled not to cry. Straightening her shoulders, she marched back to the well, determined to get a sample of the water. On her way, she stumbled on a tree root, and her gaze landed on the largest most central stone near the well. Moss and lichen grew on it, but the words etched in the stone whispered in Becca’s heart.
By these waters we do sleep
Clothed in night so dark and deep
Lady Moon who doth guide our dreams,
Shroud us in your silvery beams.
Take us to a distant time
When love and hearts doth combine.
Her knees collapsed, and she sank to the ground beside the well.
“Becca, are you okay?” Joel stood behind her.
She nodded without turning around. “I want a sample of the water. I want to test it.”
“What for?”
“Well, you know the legend.” She wished she had a bottle, or even an eyedropper. Maybe if she just soaked a piece of her clothing she could get enough of a sample. “And the theories—alkaloids like the ones in LSD, ergot tainted rye and barley.”
He put his hand on her shoulder. “There have been
countless studies done. They’ve all been inconclusive. Why are you interested?”
She twisted to look at him. “Science.” A thought struck her. “We could take it to your lab!” Dropping to her bottom, she pulled off her shoe and tugged at her stockings. She felt more than saw Joel’s curiosity at her strange boots and long socks.
“Here.” Joel handed her a plastic water bottle.
“Did you just happen to have that with you?” Becca asked as she submerged the bottle and watched it fill to the top.
“Yeah. Lucky you.” He smiled down at her, and handed her the lid.
She screwed it on, and climbed to her feet. “Okay! Can we go to your lab now?”
He shook his head. “It’s the weekend. I can’t be on school property.”
“What? That’s dumb.”
He shrugged. “Insurance purposes.”
Becca blinked back sudden tears.
“Becca.” Joel’s voice turned soft, and he touched her arm. “Are you okay?” he asked again.
“No…I’m…”
“Yeah, if you want, I’ll take the water to school with me on Monday.” He cocked his head to get a better look at her face. “Will that make you happy?”
She didn’t know what would make her happy anymore. She worried that only Warwick could make her happy, and he was the one thing that she’d never be able to have, because he wasn’t real.
But Joel was real. She had been in love with him for so long. Was she still? Pulling in a long breath, she straightened her spine. “Joel, will you kiss me?”
“What?” He looked stunned.
“Oh come on! I’ve been in love with you since I was fourteen! You can’t tell me you didn’t know.” Impatience and frustration filled her voice.
He shook his head. “I didn’t know…”
“How could you not know?”
He shrugged. “Because you never gave me the slightest hint.”
“What?”
He laughed and grabbed her in his arms. “I always thought you thought of me like a brother!”
She looked up into his face, the one that she knew almost as well as her own. “So, will you kiss me?”
He nodded. “Yeah. I’d be happy to.”
She lifted her lips to him. “Then do it already.”
And he did.
And it was nice.
Just nice.
Pulling away from him, she placed her hand on her belly and thought of Warwick’s hot kisses. She blinked back tears.
Joel moved to pull her back into his arms, but she side-stepped out of his reach.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. With her fingers on her trembling lips, she turned and away.
“Becca?” Joel called after her.
Lifting up her blue skirts, Becca ran all the way home.
#
Becca sat on her bed, knowing that she should be relieved to be awake, at home, with her feet planted firmly back in reality. But what is reality? She wondered. Her love for Joel, it had felt real—substantial, tangible, all encompassing—and now that he had handed his heart to her, she wasn’t interested. She had ran away.
He must have felt as if she'd slapped him in the face.
Stung by her own insensitivity, and yet unsure what to do about it, she lay back on the bed and put a pillow over her head. She stayed there for several minutes, trying to sort out what to do next. Her whole life had been run according to her chore chart. Every morning, she composed a list, and at the end of every day she checked off the things she had completed. And those tedious tasks that spontaneously had sprung up--she tackled those, too, and added them to her paper with a corresponding check mark. It struck her that her chart was nothing more than a trophy shelf, and the things she conquered were not battles that she won, but symbols of the life she lived.
But were the tasks—those items on her to-do list—a reflection of her life, or were they in the way of the life she truly wanted to live? What if she got rid of the list, the tasks, and the relentless schedules? What then?
Sitting up, bracing her feet on the floor, she thought about her life in a whole new way. By drinking from the Witching Well, she had left everything she knew. The waters had thrown her into a strange, new world, and had opened her heart to love.
She knew that hallucinogens were dangerous and addictive. She knew she couldn’t go back and find Warwick…but wait—isn’t that exactly what Celia had done? And hadn’t Celia ended up in the arms of Jason West—a man that only moments before she had professed to hate?
And didn’t that prove Becca’s point that the waters could rearrange reality?
But Jason was a real person. Warwick was a figment of her imagination.
Or was he?
Becca reached over and pulled her laptop off her desk. Her impatience mounted as she booted up. First, she took note of the date and time. Remarkably, today was still October tenth. According to the computer, only a few hours had passed since she’d fallen in the well.
She knew the effects of hallucinogens varied from person to person, but she also knew that a typical delusion could last as long as twelve hours. Glancing at the clock, she tried to figure out how long hers had seemed to last, and how much time had really passed.
But who was to say which time was real and which was a delusion?
With shaky fingers, she went to the family search program Celia had shown her. She typed Clinton Warwick into the search box. There he was. Born 1840, in Sharon, Vermont, married to Mary Kate Loren in 1865 in Everwood, Colorado.
He was a real person. He had lived, and he had died, and for a brief moment, Becca had been lucky enough to share a portion of his remarkable life.
But wait, Mary Kate’s death was listed, but not Warwick’s.
Becca leaned back, trying to sort out what that could possibly mean. Probably, it meant nothing more than that he had disappeared, as so many people in that day and age did. He could have fallen into a ravine, been captured and slaughtered by Indians, died of thirst in the desert. A million unthinkable things could have happened to him. Thinking of his death filled her with a renewed sense of loss, and tears rolled down her cheeks. She did nothing to stop them, but let them land on her keyboard and rain on her fingers.
Her thoughts teetered. So, if his death had been undocumented, that meant he hadn’t died that day on a Denver boardwalk from a bullet wound.
She could go back.
No.
Hallucinogens were dangerous.
But Celia had done it. She had gone back and forth through time.
Becca set aside the laptop, stood, and brushed away her tears. She needed to talk to Celia.
Moments later, Becca banged out the door. Shoving her hands into her jean’s pockets, she decided to walk the three blocks to Celia’s grandmother’s house, mostly because she’d forgotten her keys, but also because she knew that exercise was a good way to rid her body and mind of the effects of drugs.
But did she want to rid her mind of Warwick?
No.
And besides, she couldn’t. Even if she wanted to, she would always remember Warwick. Thoughts of their wedding night warmed her, despite the brisk, moist autumn air. She inhaled deeply, filling her head with the scents of fallen leaves and chimney smoke.
As she passed the houses of the neighborhood where she’d always lived, she thought about Colorado.
She could go back.
Not to 1870. That would be crazy.
But Celia had done it.
No. She wouldn’t do that. She couldn’t drink from the well again.
Celia had.
But going to Colorado made sense. She had to go for her father’s funeral anyway. For a weekend. But what if she went for longer than a weekend? What if she sold her mother’s house? With the equity, she could pay off her student loans.
The idea made her stop in front of Mrs. Lester’s house.
Sparky, a bulldog who in no way resembled his name, lifted his heavy body from the front porch to stare at her. �
��Woof,” he warned her with his deep bark.
“I know,” she told him.
“Whoof!”
“I know…it’s craziness.” She shook her head and started walking again. She had always thought that she would live and die, with Joel, in her mother’s house. And that their children would also live and die in her mother’s house.
Maybe by holding onto her mother’s house she was subconsciously trying to live out her mother’s failed dream. Was she trying to recreate for her children the childhood that she had lost when her parents had divorced?
Becca stopped in front of the Bailey’s house. The old Colonial was one of her favorites. The Bailey’s had raised five children in the house, and almost every Sunday most of them still gathered for dinner. During the winter months, Mrs. Bailey made a pot roast and often, during the summer, Mr. Bailey would barbeque. Their family had grown from five children to include a bunch of in-laws and a swarm of grandchildren.
Celia wanted a large family like the Bailey’s, but now that she thought about it, nothing in her behavior had pointed her in that direction. She started walking again, but this time a little slower as she thought about her to-do lists. Finding a husband and creating a baby had never made any of her charts.
But that’s because she thought she’d already found her husband. She was supposed to marry Joel.
So why hadn’t she? He had said he’d been there waiting. But now she knew what–or who—she really wanted. She wanted Warwick.
Of course, she couldn’t have Warwick. He had lived a hundred some odd years ago.
But he hadn’t died.
Of course he had. No one lives for hundreds of years.
What about Methusela? Those people in the Old Testament lived for ages.
Becca mentally shook herself. Warwick wasn’t Biblical, and she couldn’t turn him into a God—someone to be worshipped, but never approached. This was exactly what she’d done to Joel, and it hadn’t been fair to him or to her.
She wanted—no, she needed—someone real. Someone whose kisses turned her knees to mush, someone who made her laugh and made her mad, someone messy and complicated, someone who—
Becca stopped again, this time in front of Celia’s grandmother’s house, and watched Celia and Jason through the window. Jason stood, while Celia piled dresses into his extended arms. He was almost completely buried beneath satin and lace.
