Return to Yesterday

by Abbie Williams

  “I didn’t say I minded, did I?” His grin widened.

  “No, but…” I faltered, smile dissipating like dandelion seeds in a rush of air. Increasingly flustered I turned away and rose to both feet, summoning every ounce of willpower to keep steady.

  Malcolm sensed my agitation and was intuitive enough not to tease further, leading Aces to the creek; he crouched near his horse and filled his canteen while I knelt a few yards downstream and splashed water over my blistering face. Taking care not to simultaneously peel off my t-shirt I stripped from my sweater, tossing it well away from the water, and then splashed my face again. Malcolm kept his attention pointedly focused on the tasks at hand, while I self-consciously swiped at the sweat rings decorating my collar and armpits. I did smell terrible, even if he was too kind to admit it.

  “How much farther?” I asked.

  He straightened and offered me the canteen; I gulped gratefully, water trickling over my chin.

  “Muscatine isn’t more than five miles. Half an hour, at most.” He nodded at the canteen in my hand. “Have another sip, you’ve lost fluid this day.”

  “And you think someone will be willing to ride out to the Rawleys’ place tonight and warn them?” I asked after another swallow of the icy creek water. I pictured Ruthie and Marshall, hundreds of miles west in Montana, unaware of the danger headed their way.

  “I pray so. A good rider with a solid horse can make it to their ranch by tomorrow morning if they leave immediately.” Our gazes held for a beat, then longer; my heart thrust with such force I was sure he could hear it. He drew a slow breath, accepting his canteen as I handed it over, bringing it to his lips to swallow two large gulps before saying, “As should we.”

  Muscatine appeared on the horizon twenty minutes later, a small town on the Mississippi River. I stared with wide eyes at the sights, at horses and buggies and wagons, men and women moving through their day with no idea whatsoever that someone born in the twentieth century gawked at them. These people had never watched television, listened to the radio, or heard of plastic; stupid thoughts took precedence, keeping distress at bay. I hadn’t slept in over forty-eight hours at this point and the fear of failing to accomplish our goal of getting word to Ruthie and Marshall was stalking my self-control.

  You saved Patricia and Cole. They’re no longer in Dredd Yancy’s path. And Blythe, he’s safe now too. And Patricia’s baby, don’t forget about him!

  I hadn’t even set eyes on the baby.

  Malcolm made a low clucking sound to Aces, tightening his right knee, and Aces responded at once, slowing to a graceful walk. I’d noticed many times throughout the day how effortlessly the horse responded to Malcolm, almost as if they were one being. After Malcolm’s teasing about my hair in his face I’d braided its length, tucking it over my right shoulder. The immediacy of his strong, lean body behind mine proved torturous; constant reminders that I couldn’t want him this way were of no use. I wanted him in every way.

  We had covered an entire gamut of conversational topics over the hours of riding but still managed to sidestep the story of Cora’s disappearance. I’d told him of Mathias and our children, of living in the homesteader’s cabin that he and his brother, Boyd, had indeed built. He was full of questions and demanded lengthy descriptions of everything and everyone, which I was happy to deliver; Mathias and I had been correct in our assumption that Cora and Malcolm intended to live together in the little cabin. I was further stunned to discover that Cora’s mother’s name had been Millie. Aces continued along the town’s dusty main street until Malcolm drew him to a halt in front of a general store; a small, hand-lettered sign propped in the window read ‘Telegraph Station.’

  “How can you stand upright?” I groaned as he dismounted with ease. “My legs feel like two-by-fours.”

  “Years of practice.” He helped me from Aces, keeping a gentle grip on my waist until certain I was steady. The sun sprawled low on the horizon, visible between two false-fronted buildings, amber light spilling in bright beams to spangle my vision. I fought dizziness and hunger, disorientation and low-grade panic. Malcolm held my gaze, concern creasing his brow.

  “You need food and rest,” he said softly. “Come. We’ll send word and then find a bite to eat.”

  The telegraph operator wrote out the message as we dictated, debating over exact wording with every sentence; the operator was a patient man. I thought of the telegram Malcolm had sent on Christmas Day, 1876, in which he’d described missing home so much he hurt. Watching him now, six and a half years later, a man whose bearing was one of admirable strength, who carried himself with an abundance of grace and capability, I was overcome with pride and happiness and love and lust, a complex knot of emotion. Tears flecked my lashes and I turned away so the telegraph operator, already clicking out our message on his small device, wouldn’t think I was crazy. Malcolm rested a hand on my lower back, warm and reassuring, as we waited.

  The telegram read, CAMILLE ARRIVED THIS MORNING. PLEASE GET IMMEDIATE WORD TO GRANT AND MARSHALL RAWLEY. TELL THEM FALLON IS ON HIS WAY. WILL REACH YOU BY TOMORROW. BE PREPARED. DO NOT LEAVE FOR HOWARDSVILLE. C&P SAFE. REQUEST WORD WHEN RIDER IS SENT. MALCOLM A. CARTER.

  “What if someone doesn’t ride out there tonight?” I worried as we descended the wooden steps out front in the rich copper glow of sunset. “Because they don’t understand how serious this is! What if Fallon is already in Howardsville? What if he showed up early?”

  Malcolm stopped midstride and turned to face me, gently grasping my upper arms. “Hey. We’ll check back here as soon as we’ve found a place to stay the night, don’t you worry. We’ve done all we can for now. Think of what you’ve accomplished today. You oughta be proud of yourself.”

  “You’re right,” I whispered. “Thank you.”

  He offered his right arm, with a sweet half-grin lifting the right side of his mouth. “May I escort you to dinner? If I remember correctly, they serve a fine plate of fried chicken at the hotel, yonder.”

  We crossed the street, anonymous in this little town other than a few curious glances at my strange modern outfit. I did not allow my thoughts to stray beyond each passing second; I felt almost as though we walked together through a dream sequence, through the warm balm of the tail end of a hot afternoon, candle lanterns blinking to life in establishments remaining open for the evening hours. Too much had happened today, far too much to deal with; right now there was only Malcolm Carter, holding my arm and asking what I liked best to eat.

  “Best of all?” I asked, squeezing his elbow closer to my side. “It would have to be the fried fish we serve at Shore Leave. The only times I couldn’t eat it was when I was pregnant. My morning sickness was always too bad in the first few months.”

  Just like Mathias, Malcolm was an expert at maintaining easygoing conversation; talking, storytelling, yarn-spinning, all came naturally to the Carters. “Lorie is a midwife. I remember her saying many a time that morning sickness is a good sign.”

  “I’ve always heard the same. I went through it five times and my babies were all healthy.” My throat tightened at the mention of my children, as it had each time we’d discussed them today. I couldn’t explain it – the ache of missing Mathias and our children was a long, double-sided blade jammed through my heart, existing simultaneously alongside the buoyant joy of being near Malcolm. There were no words to describe this paradox of feelings and so I did not attempt to understand. I simply felt – and in feeling, somehow understood.

  His soul is Mathias’s soul. And yours is Cora’s. You belong with both of them in this way. And they belong to you. What is fate if not the force that pulled you to him this very morning?

  “Millie Jo, Brantley, Henry…which of them has my name as his second?” he demanded.

  “Brantley,” I whispered around a lump. “He’s about the sweetest of my babies.”

  “And then comes Lorie, and little James Boyd. Aw, Lorie and Boyd would be proud to know your babes bear their names. I have a dozen
nieces and nephews, two of which are named for me.”

  “Ruthie met them, in Landon. She told us all about them. Or wait…I guess she hasn’t yet. Not in this timeline. It’s so confusing.”

  We’d reached the hotel, a white clapboard building with a deep front porch and a balcony running the entire length of the second floor. Malcolm paused with one boot on the bottom step, abruptly realizing, “You’d prefer a moment to yourself, I’d wager.” He adjusted his hat brim in a gesture both endearing and self-conscious. Keeping his gaze directed at the steps, he murmured, “I’ll inquire after our rooms for the evening.”

  Sawdust coated my tongue; it took courage, but I stuttered, “You needn’t get…two rooms.”

  His eyes lifted at once, burning into mine with such powerful certainty that a sharp thrill pulsed in my belly, undeniable as tomorrow’s sunrise.

  Had I known how this day would end?

  Of course I had; there was no other way, not from the second we first laid eyes upon each other many hours and miles ago. All paths circled back to this exact moment, facing each other on a dusty set of steps with evening light creating a golden nimbus around his upper body, his wide shoulders and lean arms, his cowboy hat. Without a word he lifted my right hand to his lips and tenderly kissed my knuckles, then my palm, before lacing our fingers and bringing our joined hands to his fast-thudding heart.

  “I was hoping you might say that,” he whispered.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Muscatine, IA - June, 1882

  OUR ROOM FACED THE MAIN STREET AND I PROPPED OPEN the window to the pleasant evening air, alone for the moment while Malcolm returned downstairs to ask after dinner and a pitcher of hot water for the basin. Elated and terrified in almost equal parts, feeling like a bride on her wedding night – and an ignoramus at that, one who had no earthly idea what occurred between a man and a woman – I fluttered around the cramped space, the narrow wooden floorboards creaking underfoot. The mirror revealed my sunburned face, cheeks and eyes blazing as brightly as if I’d spent the past two minutes guzzling a jug of wine. My heart was no longer only in my chest but hammering at every pulse point.

  A knock sounded and I jumped as if prodded by an iron poker, almost too afraid to answer the door. I needn’t have worried; it was only the woman from behind the front desk, carrying a steaming teakettle, which she emptied into a porcelain basin on the dresser.

  “There, my dear, you take a moment to wash up. Your husband said to tell you he would return with a plate of food, not to worry. And I’ve taken the liberty of bringing you a nightgown, as he said yours was ruined.” She handed me a length of white material I’d thought was a towel, trying not to wince at my unkempt appearance, and then bustled around the room, lighting both lanterns, clucking with maternal concern. “Poor dear. You wash up and rest, you’ll be right as rain in the morning. Soap’s in the top drawer.”

  “Thank you,” I stammered as she took her leave.

  Steam rose from the water in small curls; the basin was exactly like the one stationed on Gran’s dresser, back home. While grateful for the hot water I couldn’t help but wonder how in the hell a person was supposed to wash up with what amounted to about six cups of liquid. But it was better than nothing and so I drew the curtains at the window. The candlelight created golden ripples on the water as I brought the basin to the floor, small agitated waves. I stripped from my t-shirt and bra, cringing at the thought of putting them back on tomorrow, and left my hair in a braid as I scrubbed my face and armpits, in that order, using the small yellow-brown chunk of soap that lathered about as well as a stone.

  Fumbling, cursing, dripping water everywhere, I knelt over the basin in a state of nervous anticipation so heightened my stomach seemed to be floating in a hot air balloon somewhere near the stratosphere.

  Hurry, Malcolm. Oh God, hurry back to me.

  I’m afraid I might die before you get back.

  I peeled off my socks and jeans and panties, breathless, shaking hard now. There was less water in the basin than on the wooden floor at this point; the soap stung the skin between my legs, prompting another spill as I scrambled to rinse. Because I couldn’t get my clothes wet, I used the nightgown to mop up the mess on the floor, about halfway done and completely naked when a second knock sounded. I swallowed a shriek as Malcolm said, “It’s just me. If you’re ready, I brought us dinner.”

  He sounded as if there was a large, fibrous husk lodged in his windpipe.

  “Hang on!” I gasped, tearing the sheet from the bed and wrapping it toga-fashion around my damp body. I could hardly force air from my lungs, let alone words, but I managed to invite, “Come in.”

  He opened the door and I saw immediately he had two plates piled with chicken and mashed potatoes balanced on his right forearm. I hurried to help him and he caught sight of me – and my lack of clothing – at the same instant. Heated tension flared between us with more impact than a lightning bolt. We almost bumped heads as I stumbled forward to take the plates from his arm, both of us talking at once, a rush of nervous babbling.

  “I know this sheet looks stupid…my clothes are so dirty…”

  “No, no, it’s not stupid at all…I shoulda given you more time up here…”

  “Watch out, the floor’s all wet, I’m so sorry…”

  “No, it’s all right…”

  “I should have saved you some water…”

  “There’s no need, I washed up downstairs…”

  A flush blazing across his cheekbones, Malcolm watched me set the plates on the dresser and then grab for the sheet as it threatened to slip from my breasts. And then a grin spread slowly across his lips, one hand at his mouth as if to hide the evidence of his amusement, shoulders shaking with restrained laughter. I giggled too, trying with no luck to latch the sheet around my torso; the bottom of it sprawled across the wet floor like the train of a filmy dress, well past my toes.

  “C’mere,” he muttered, laughing, advancing to offer his assistance, removing his hat and setting it aside. Without another word he stepped behind me and tucked my long braid over my right shoulder. I was afraid I might pass out – or my heart would just plain burst – as he gathered the sheet and neatly, efficiently, tied it between my shoulder blades, creating what amounted to a threadbare strapless dress, complete with soggy hem. Once finished he murmured, “There,” and turned me gently around.

  I tried to thank him but I couldn’t speak past the force field in my chest. His dark hair was damp, curling along the nape of his neck, his shirt undone past two buttons at the collar.

  His smile vanished; his hands remained on my bare shoulders. He whispered hoarsely, “You are so beautiful, I can’t hardly breathe.”

  “Malcolm…” His name scraped my throat, at the crest of a merciless storm of emotion, a storm from which we could no longer run or hide. The press of Cora’s memories, her desperate longing for this man, were at once intertwined with my own; no separating the two.

  The time had come.

  I dove into his arms, seeking refuge, seeking something for which no words existed. He crushed me to his chest as I sobbed in huge, messy gulps; I feared I would never stop, that the grief, at long last given release, would never fully abate.

  “I’m so sorry, Malcolm…I’m so sorry…” The words burst from all the shadowy, boarded-over chambers in my soul, places where no light had ever shattered the darkness. “Oh God, please forgive Cora. Forgive me…”

  He spoke in my ear, rough with tears. “I have prayed for so many years for your forgiveness, my love, my sweet love, and to beg forgiveness of Cora. And of you. I would turn my soul inside out to be returned to that night in the foothills, when I left you behind. I thought you were safe, I would never have left if I thought otherwise…” Pain throttled him to silence; his chest heaved.

  I took his face between my palms, desperate to see his eyes; to look upon one another in this moment was both an exquisite gift and excruciating punishment. “I know, Malcolm, I truly know.
Don’t be sorry anymore, promise me, sweetheart. If I could grant you one wish, it would be absolution from your pain.” My breath caught on a sharp sob. “I love you. I’ve loved you since I first knew who you were. I’ve loved you through all of time, even the times we never found each other.”

  His eyes cut straight to my soul. “I have never loved anyone more than you. I never will. Nothing can change what you mean to me, not time or separation, not even death. You are the reason I live.”

  Holding each other close was no longer close enough and we both knew it.

  Slow, deliberate, never removing the heat of his gaze from mine, he lifted my braid and unraveled it, next burying his hands in the wild length of my loose hair. His face grew almost stern with the depth of emotion I’d tapped and I made a small, inadvertent sound, pleading for more, and only more. For everything. He stroked my curls with slow, sensual movements, spreading them over my shoulders, letting his knuckles softly brush my nipples in passing.

  I let the sheet fall to the floor.

  He inhaled deeply, eyes darkening with overpowering arousal as he claimed my mouth, parting my lips and tasting me with deep strokes of his tongue. I moaned, knees buckling, and he swept me into his arms with an effortless motion, carrying me straight to the little brass bed which, for this one night, would become our heaven on earth; the fulfillment of over a century of waiting. He took me backward with a fluid, predatory grace as we kissed open-mouthed, gliding his warm hands in a path down my ribs, circling to cup my breasts, my hips.

  Desire slammed me against jagged rocks, shook me in its teeth, until I was trembling and gasping, lifting into his touch with a violence of need. He broke the contact of our mouths to kiss my neck, opening his lips over my nipples, gently latching my right knee around his waist to stroke between my thighs, exploring each soft fold, inside and out.

  “Your shirt…” I yanked at it, wanting it gone. No further barriers between us.