“Axton, who’s out west with Ruthie and Marsh right now?”
Tears rimmed her lower lids. “I ache with missing him. I am a selfish beast.”
“But…” I sifted through the enormous amount of information Ruthann had divulged the night she reappeared at Shore Leave, searching for the relevant detail. “Wait. Axton is who Ruthie believes Case is, in the future. Right?”
Patricia nodded slowly, unable to staunch the flow of tears; she used the quilt to blot her eyes, speaking in a strangled voice. “Derrick spoke of…what happened to Case Spicer, your sister’s husband.”
“Tish was destroyed,” I whispered, flinching at the memory. “And it’s all the more reason we have to stop every possibility of that timeline ever existing.” No sooner had the words cleared my lips than I sat straight as if jabbed in the ribs, eyes leaping to the west-facing windows. The curtains were drawn on the stormy night but it was not the violent clap of thunder that commanded my sudden attention. Jolted by both the noise and my abrupt motion, Monty stiffened and began to fuss.
“What is it?” Patricia gasped.
Alerted to danger but unable yet to answer, I stretched outward with my mind, toward Ruthann, all senses firing. In light of today’s chaos I’d been allowed no time to imagine my little sister’s reaction to the news that I was here in 1882. The Ruthann out there in Montana tonight had not experienced the fire and its horrible aftermath; she was roughly a week behind the Ruthie who had surfaced in Flickertail Lake burdened with the knowledge of those events. But tonight was when Fallon had intended to burn the Rawleys’ homestead.
“Ruthie…” I gritted my teeth, straining to reach her.
“Something has happened? Something is wrong?” Patricia’s voice was high with fright.
“I don’t know,” I admitted miserably. I stood, with care, and handed Monty to her before scurrying to the window. I parted the curtains to find the view obscured by the downpour, struck by a sudden, horrible vision of Fallon standing below me on the wet street, impervious to the rain and aiming a gun at the bright square of this lighted window, with my body dead center.
I dropped to a crouch.
“Dear God, is he out there?” Patricia cried.
I shook my head, lips numb. The bone-deep cold returned, rendering my limbs all but useless. I rocked back on my heels and found my voice. “I don’t think so, but something is wrong. I felt Ruthie just now, really strong. I think…I think Fallon found her.”
“You are certain they received your telegram? That they have been made aware he was headed their way?”
Booted feet thundered up the stairs; I knew it was Malcolm before he appeared in the doorway, hatless and wild-eyed, scanning the little room as he entered. Spying me crouched at the window he flew to my side and helped me to my feet. He brought me against his chest and I cinched his waist with both arms, holding fast.
“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” His rapid heartbeat thudded against my right cheek.
“Camille felt Ruthann, just now,” Patricia explained. “Something is the matter.”
“I think Fallon found her,” I repeated, my words muffled by Malcolm’s shirt. His forehead was bandaged, his dry, clean clothes borrowed from Cole. He drew back to look at me, his thumbs tracing careful paths along my cheekbones. The left side of my body was bruised from my fall, never mind the ache of a lost molar; my tongue had been unable to leave the small concavity alone. But my wounds were minor compared to Malcolm’s.
Malcolm wasted no time questioning why we believed something was wrong; he saw the desperation in my eyes and spoke adamantly. “They are prepared this time around, remember that. They know he’s coming. Marshall and Axton will be there, along with Grant.”
“But he’s so dangerous.” I clenched my thigh muscles to keep them from trembling. “I’m so scared…”
Malcolm held my gaze; the white of his right eye was redder than blood, a result of being struck in the forehead. I cupped my hand on that side of his face, wishing I could reverse the damage done to him today. Wishing we were back in the little hotel room in Muscatine with the whole night ahead of us. He admitted quietly, “I’m scared too. But if we give in, we’re as good as lost. Fallon ain’t undefeatable. Remember that.”
“But he…he’s…” I couldn’t finish; Fallon was so many terrible things it seemed beyond words.
“Come downstairs with me, we’ll keep watch together. I don’t much like having you out of my sight as it is, I can’t pretend otherwise.” His lips curved with a hint of his sweet smile before he turned toward Patricia and Monty. “And I’ll send Cole straightaway to you and the little one, dear lady.”
The Lunds had retired to their personal rooms above the general store, located in the building across the street. Probably so that eye contact was not required, Cole and Derrick sat at right angles to one another at a small dining table in the downstairs gathering space, the only other people in the boardinghouse. A fire crackled in the belly of a squatty iron stove, filling the room with warm orange light. They both looked up at the sound of our descent on the steps, their features highlighted with odd slants of light and shadow, elongating their noses. Though I didn’t know Derrick well, I realized he was reaching the end of his patience with all of this.
“Patricia requests your company,” Malcolm said to Cole, who nodded, gathered up his rifle, and disappeared upstairs.
Derrick shifted position like a restless cat, pinning me with a direct, irritated gaze. Eyes flickering between my hand – intertwined with Malcolm’s – and my face, he asked brusquely, “How much longer, Camille? And don’t pacify me, please. I’ll implode.”
I studied Derrick for a beat of silence, noting his rumpled appearance, including wrinkled clothing and heavy five o’clock shadow, his hair in disarray; this man was severely unaccustomed to living rough and I was not unsympathetic. But that didn’t change the fact that I had no answers, appeasing or otherwise. I took the seat Malcolm withdrew for me; he rested a hand on my shoulder for a moment before claiming the chair to my left. Rain lashed the single window at the front of the room while lightning continued to backlight the curtains.
“I don’t know,” I admitted, clearing the thickness from my throat. “I don’t know if it will be instantaneous once we’ve…once we’ve…” I skittered to a halt.
“Once Fallon is gone, you mean?” Derrick finished for me, leaning forward with his forearms lining the table’s edge, lacing his fingers and fitting his thumbnails together.
“Yeah,” I whispered, scooting my chair closer to Malcolm’s just as he scooted his closer to mine.
A perplexed frown beetled Derrick’s brow as he observed this, but to his credit he made no mention. He lifted his left hand, fingers splayed as he counted off events. “We’ve saved the man named Blythe, we’ve rescued Patricia and the baby, and we’ve sent word to your sister in Montana. Is that enough to reverse the timeline? What are we missing?”
Irked by his assumption that I possessed all the answers, I snapped, “How the hell should I know? I know exactly as much as you do right now.”
Derrick’s lips thinned. “I am not attempting to aggravate you. I’m fucking scared out of my wits, if you must know the truth. I’ve already jeopardized myself by helping your family. My father would kill me. Fallon would kill me, on sight.” Derrick’s tone was outright hostile and I sensed more than saw the way Malcolm’s shoulders squared. I rested a hand on Malcolm’s thigh, beneath the table.
Derrick continued, with slightly less steam, “We’re trapped here, for all I know. What guarantee do we have that Fallon will show up any time in the next few years? He despises this century even though he’s always drawn back. Against his will, I might add. This is his natural timeline, so I suppose it makes sense.”
“When did he first travel?” Malcolm asked, fitting his hand over mine, interlocking our fingers atop his leg.
Derrick stifled a sigh, forced down a new conversational path. “I don’t know for sure. Hi
s early teens, I think. By the time I met him, when I was about nine, he had established himself as his twentieth-century persona, ‘Franklin’ Yancy. My father went along with everything he said because Fallon knew things. Not only about our lives – our future lives, I might add – but about money. Our family achieved its status and wealth only because of him, as Father is always quick to remind me. And I’ve always taken that wealth for granted. I’ve lived a shallow little life and I’ve never regretted it until this past week.”
“Even if your life has been shallow to this point, what you did to help us negates all of that,” I insisted, conviction blazing in my chest. “It was completely unselfish. I can never thank you enough.”
“Oh, it wasn’t unselfish, I assure you.” Derrick inhaled through his nostrils, fixing his gaze straight ahead. “You realize I’m in love with your sister, don’t you?” He issued a short, self-deprecating chuckle. “Not that she’d ever notice.”
I chose my words carefully. “I think what you believe is love is really unfinished business between the two of you. You were married, but unhappy, in this life. And, on top of that, Dredd’s father attempted to have Patricia murdered. Of course you still have strong feelings. But Tish isn’t the woman for you. It’s time to let go of all that ancient anger and bitterness. Maybe that’s part of why you realized you had to help us…to also help yourself.”
Derrick glared at me. “Spare me the goddamned psyche analysis.”
“Do not speak to Camille in that tone.” Malcolm’s voice stayed even but there was no room for doubt in his words.
“Seriously, this century,” Derrick muttered, plunging both hands through his uncombed hair. He pushed back his chair. “I’m going to lie down.”
“Oh God, I wish I had a cell phone,” I muttered as Derrick retreated, his footsteps echoing on the stairs. “I hate not knowing what’s going on. I know Ruthie tried to reach me earlier, I felt her, Malcolm.”
“Waiting is worse than about all else,” he agreed. “As bad as living in constant fear.”
I moved to sit on his lap, needing to be closer to him. He latched his arms around my waist and rested his face between my breasts, inhaling slow and deliberate as I twined my fingers in the thick waves of his hair, taking care not to bump the bandage tied around his battered forehead.
“You were so brave today. You saved our lives in a dozen ways and they hurt you so much. You’ve been in harm’s way hundreds of times, haven’t you?” I kissed his temple, lingering there against his warm skin. “I can’t bear to think about anyone hurting you, ever again.”
What about you, my heart demanded. Your leaving will hurt him more than anything.
Malcolm met my eyes, not quite able to manage a smile, as if discerning the direction of my thoughts. But he spoke with unquestionable sincerity. “I’ll heal, don’t you worry. I don’t want to cause you a moment’s worry, Camille. This time that we’ve shared is a gift I could never have imagined. A gift I’ll be grateful for until the day I die.”
Tears blurred my vision. “Me too. Oh Malcolm, me too.”
“And once you’ve returned home to the life you remember, your real life, I want you to live it without a single regret. And know that I’m living mine the same way. All regrets washed away, washed clean. I swear to you, love, my sweet love, they’ve washed away.”
“Do you promise?” My voice shook.
“I swear,” he repeated, kissing my lips with utmost tenderness. “I’m no saint. I won’t pretend to be. But I would never ask a mama to be apart from her babies. You go back to those little ones, your Millie and Brantley and Henry, your little Lorie and James.” He clenched his jaws, as if gaining strength. “And to Mathias. I’m frightful jealous of him, I can’t lie, but you need him. You spoke his name, last night. You spoke both our names, but he’s who you need, I ain’t fool enough to pretend I can’t see it.”
My heart throbbed with love and pain, in equal parts. “Promise me the same, Malcolm. I want you to be happy. Truly happy, here in this place and time. But it hurts so much to think of…” The sentence fractured around the depth of emotion clogging my chest. “Of never seeing you again. I don’t want you to be alone here…I can’t bear it…”
Tears wet his dark eyes as he whispered gently, “Now, that’s enough.” He stroked my hair, slowly, both hands sinking deep into my curls. “I want to tell you something I believe. Something I’ve been thinking about for a long time now. Last autumn, when I met Marshall Rawley and heard his story of traveling through time, it was hard to swallow the tale, at least at first. But there must have been a part of me that had always known, somehow, that souls returned to the earth for another go-round. When Marshall told me of your family – of you – I wanted nothing more than to set eyes on you, to know that my Cora was alive again, thriving and happy, with children of her own. She wanted so much to be a mama. You have given me that knowledge, Camille, and I couldn’t ask for more.”
“But she’s not here,” I whispered, aching and overcome. “And I want you to be happy here, Malcolm. You belong in this place; I couldn’t imagine you anywhere else. And you have so much life ahead of you.”
His eyes shone with an earnest light, an intense desire for me to understand. “There’s no life without its share of pain. This whole past winter I thought on it, on the reasons a soul would return for another life, knowing ahead of time that life means suffering, no exceptions. But then I realized it’s not for pain that souls return. It’s for love. Maybe…” He paused to inhale a soft breath. “Maybe it’s because this is the only place where love is fully felt. Where love exists in its truest form, as something you would risk everything for, even the loss of it. And that’s why souls keep on coming back. And you know what? It’s worth it. In the end, I believe it’s worth it.”
Malcolm carried me to the wide rocking chair near the stove, so we could sit together more comfortably; for a long time he kept the rocker at a slow, steady pace while I sat with both knees drawn up, my head on his chest until I could breathe without crying. Our hands stayed linked, resting upon my belly. Since this morning, neither of us had mentioned the possibility of a baby nine months from now. Eyes closed, inundated by Malcolm’s words and presence, I silently vowed, I’ll name him for you.
Chapter Thirty-Two
THE WINDOWS SHOULD HAVE SHATTERED WITH THE FORCE of my wailing shrieks but the sound snagged on my damaged lungs. Wide-eyed with horror, nude and flat on my stomach, I was able only to watch as Fallon’s gunshot sent Marshall flying backward. Not a second later Fallon’s body lost substance, fading to misty nothingness, and I scrabbled toward it, fingers like claws, hissing with the furious need to destroy. Desperate huffs of air burst from my lips as I grabbed for Fallon’s boot. I thought I had him but my hands fisted around empty air…
And – minutes later, maybe more, I had no sense of time – my eyes opened upon a bright, silent, vacant space. No distinguishing characteristics to offer a clue, no hint as to where I was or how I’d come to be here. Precious seconds ticked past as I attempted to collect my bearings before the memory of Fallon’s attack rushed back to the forefront of my consciousness. Still naked and short of breath, I struggled to maneuver into a sitting position, my eyes leaping in wide, wild arcs, trying to make sense of the surroundings.
“Marshall!” I cried, my voice sliding through an octave of pure fear. “Where are you?”
I stood, reaching outward as if answers hovered in the lukewarm air, terrified down to a cellular level. I wasn’t outside. But the space around me didn’t seem contained within a building, either. When I tried to peer farther ahead than about six feet, a gray fog, the sort that hung over Flickertail on muggy summer mornings, obscured the view. I stepped forward only to find that the fog parted to allow passage through it; my bare feet touched solid ground and I could walk in any direction without reaching a limit, other than the fog. The ability to inhale and exhale returned, but too rapidly; panic beat a tattoo against my breastbone.
; “Where am I?” I begged, turning in tight circles. I covered my belly with both palms, protecting the firm melon-curve of my baby. Louder now, terror swelling. “Marshall! Where are you? What’s happening?!”
Was I dead? Or had I come to some sort of standstill in the flow of time?
“Can anyone hear me?” I shouted. “Where am I?”
The fog existed above, below, to every side. I walked and jogged, by turns, desperate to find an entry point. A door, a window, a sign. A horrible picture filled my mind, of a huge, smooth glass jar in which I’d been deposited like an unwary ant. I saw myself running in agitated, endless circles around its confines, a prisoner suspended in time; no matter how much ground I covered, I went nowhere. The surroundings did not alter in any way. My forward motion eventually stalled and I crouched in the exact center of the bright, silent, vacant space, gripping my shoulders in either hand, curving forward. Too terrified to cry, I clutched my torso and begged a refrain of despair. “Help me. Please, help me.”
Rain continued falling over the little settlement of Windham, providing a lulling background cadence as Malcolm and I sat together in the rocking chair; my eyes eventually drifted shut. Not quite asleep, I remained peripherally aware of the surroundings; Cole returned downstairs and he and Malcolm talked in hushed voices. The fire in the woodstove crackled, its red heat bathing my half-closed eyes. Intermittent thunder grumbled. The rocker creaked and Malcolm’s lithe fingers stroked my hair in a slow, rhythmic caress. My nose rested at the juncture of his collarbones and his pulse beat against my cheek. He smelled exactly like Mathias and in my exhaustion I imagined I was snuggled in my husband’s arms, the two of us stealing a moment’s rest after finally getting the kids to bed.
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