But you haven’t done anything like that lately…
You’re pregnant.
I sat up fast, my vision immediately mottled by dense purple spots.
What in the hell…
Camille scrambled to my side from the left, throwing her arms around me and almost taking both of us to the pavement. Because, I realized, sense returning in halting increments, we were sitting on cold, wet pavement between two rows of cars in the parking lot of The Spoke. Music thumped from inside; I was pretty sure I heard Mathias singing. The blacktop beneath us was slushy and my jeans and the back of Case’s flannel shirt, which I was wearing, were soaked through. My pregnant belly created a small, smooth swell between my hipbones.
I blinked. Then blinked again. The dizzy spots receded.
“Oh God…” I moaned, eyes locked with my older sister’s. Her face was shiny with tears and she was breathing fast. I gripped her sweater, holding as tightly as I could. “Oh, Camille…we just…we just…”
“I know,” she whispered, hugging me again, squeezing hard, both of us shaking.
To our right, a tall man raced toward the front entrance, waving his arms and shouting, “We need help! This man needs medical attention! He’s been shot!”
Derrick Yancy, I realized.
Memories began assaulting, hard and fast.
Case…shot in the stomach in Chicago…
Our real lives erased…
“It’s all right, Tish, it’s all right.” As though I was a little girl, Camille held me close, cupping the back of my head. Her breath fanned my cheek as she whispered, “We’re back. We made it back.”
“Then who…what…”
“It’s Marshall, he’s hurt. C’mon,” and so saying, Camille stood and helped me to my feet.
Ten paces away Ruthie, clad in nothing but a baggy gray sweatshirt, knelt supporting Marshall’s upper body with both arms. He was conscious, clutching his right shoulder; the front of his shirt was covered in blood.
Ruthann and Marshall, here in Jalesville in 2014.
Home. They were home.
Sobs broke like glass in my chest. I fell to my knees to hug Ruthie, to kiss Marshall’s face, to touch both of them; it had been so long. And then I heard the front door bang open and my husband shouting my name, brimming with concern, and nothing else mattered. I stumbled to my feet and met him halfway across the lot, crying so hard I couldn’t see.
“Baby, what’s going on? What’s wrong? Who’s been shot?!” Case enfolded me in his arms and I threaded mine around him, clinging for dear life, so grateful my knees became jelly.
Home.
Jalesville, Case, our baby…
We had been restored.
“Oh my God, they’re back,” Case breathed, catching sight of them. Completely floored, he stared with wide eyes, momentarily frozen in place. “Holy shit! Marsh! Ruthie!”
I couldn’t explain a damn thing, too overcome. The parking lot promptly flooded with people, everyone within The Spoke surging outside from the warm, neon-tinted interior to offer help; Mathias, Garth, Becky, the Heller girls. Ruthie and Marsh were inundated. Everyone talking, babbling, freaking out. I recognized the fact that in almost everyone else’s perception Camille and I had only been absent for a few minutes. We would have plenty of time to explain later. For now, I couldn’t think beyond Case in my arms, safe, whole, himself.
I could never be thankful enough.
“Call Clark!” Becky ordered Garth, on her knees beside Ruthann.
“I already did!” cried Lee Heller, Marshall’s cousin; all three Heller girls, Pam, Lee, and Netta, crouched near him and Ruthie, clucking with concern.
“And I called Mom!” Pam added. “They’re all on the way.”
One arm around Marshall’s shoulder and tears on his face, Garth couldn’t stop talking, his deep voice ragged with emotion. “Marshall, you’re back. Oh Jesus, we’ve missed you, we’ve been so scared. Dad said they were going to join us for the music so they might be on the way already. They’re going to lose it. Marsh, holy shit, where have you two been? We’ve missed you both so fucking much…”
Pale and drawn, Marshall could only wag his head side to side – I’ll explain later. He reached with his free hand and Garth gripped it between both of his, squeezing hard.
Sirens sounded, wailing closer.
“Baby, we better call Shore Leave too,” Case said. “My phone’s in my back pocket…”
I reached up to frame his face with both hands. He couldn’t understand in this moment the depth of my gratitude; he didn’t realize what I’d endured in the altered timeline – our separation in these past weeks that for him had passed in a matter of minutes. He had died in my arms on a rainy Chicago sidewalk. I would never forget the horror of that. But Case recognized my raw emotion, gently gripping my wrists and turning to press kisses to my palms, one after the other.
“I’m here,” he murmured, keeping me tucked to his side. “Right here, sweetheart.”
Mom answered my call on the first ring by demanding, “What’s happened? Jilly just called and said something’s happening!”
I choked up all over again; I could hear Blythe and my little brothers, Matthew and Nathaniel, in the background, and pictured them in their cozy kitchen in the cabin Blythe had built for Mom in the woods beyond Shore Leave. Before I could respond a loud truck made a sharp right into the lot and bounced over the curb, slamming to a halt and simultaneously peeling off a parked car’s back bumper with a shrill, metallic screech. The local ambulance roared in right behind the truck, which I recognized as Sean Rawley’s; he, Quinn, Wy, and Clark left all four doors gaping as they bounded out.
“Ruthie! Marshall! Where’s my son?” Clark hollered, running full-bore.
Marshall’s gaze flew toward the sound of his father’s voice and he began sobbing; harsh, chest-heaving sobs. “Dad…”
Everyone else backed away to let the Rawleys close to Marsh and Ruthie, and while they were careful of Marshall’s injury, it was still pure chaos.
Shouting to be heard, I told Mom, “Ruthie’s home!”
Two hours later and well after midnight, we were all gathered in Clark’s living room. Every light on the main floor was glowing. Food covered every flat surface, even though it was sustenance enough to know Ruthie and Marsh were in the same county. In the same century. Tucked close to Mathias on the leather couch, legs curled beneath me, I sat nursing James, an afghan arranged over his chubby little body. I couldn’t bear to let any of them out of my sight and so our tired, wild-eyed kids were running amok, egged on by Wy and Sean, eating brownies and chips and knocking over cans of soda; Clark’s sister, Julie Heller, had hauled along enough snacks for the entire county. Ruthie, Clark, Garth, and Becky had stayed in Miles City at the hospital with Marshall, who had required a blood transfusion and would not be allowed home for at least a few days.
Tish and I – and Derrick Yancy – were the only ones who remembered anything about the alternate timeline.
My sister and Case sat on the adjacent couch, Case’s arms wrapped almost double around Tish as she snuggled close to him, her head on his shoulder. Because the kids were present we had not related extensive details about what we’d been through; full disclosure could come later, after we’d slept. And…been allowed a little time to heal.
Malcolm, I thought for the countless time, with bittersweet acknowledgment of the tender ache that would, forever after, exist deep in my heart.
I could never thank Malcolm Carter enough, could never hope to repay him for what he’d done to restore my life. I prayed that in return he kept his promise and lived out the remainder of his life seeking happiness rather than running from it; I prayed he had eventually married and become a father. I’d come quickly to recognize that any chance of a child created during our night in Muscatine was an impossibility; with the righting of our timeline my body had been restored to its former condition, the one which had given birth to five babies and was currently nursing the n
ewest. I would not bear Malcolm’s baby; the memory of our lovemaking, I decided, would remain sacred, existing between us alone. I would never see Malcolm again and it was the least I could do for him.
Someday, when I was brave enough, I would look for clues. I would search for hints as to Malcolm’s later life in old documents, letters, telegrams…
Or…maybe I would not.
Maybe, as Ruthie said, the past was better left in the past.
I cupped my husband’s face with my free hand, his thick black beard soft atop the firm line of his solid jaw, and his beautiful eyes, the deep blue of Flickertail beneath summer sunshine, crinkled at the outer corners as he grinned. The sight of his grin caused the next breath to lodge in my chest; the bridge of my nose stung with unshed tears. Malcolm’s spirit, his very essence, shone so clearly in Mathias’s every movement, his every expression. And I recognized all over again the depth of connection our two souls had shared since time began; in this way, Malcolm would never be far from my side.
“My sweet woman,” Mathias murmured, leaning close to steal a quick, soft kiss, tucking wayward curls behind my right ear. “It’s been a hell of a night, hasn’t it?”
I thought of leaping from a bedroom window into Malcolm’s arms; for me, that moment had occurred but hours ago.
“It has,” I whispered, edging closer to him, cuddling our baby between us. “A hell of a night.”
Derrick Yancy, perched on an ottoman between the two couches, looked up from scooping dip onto a handful of chips. A week ago the Rawleys, let alone Tish and Case, would never have welcomed Derrick into their home. But things had changed. Fallon’s death had been the catalyst in a series of events that culminated, at least in one immediate way, in a distinct difference in Derrick’s persona. He seemed, in fact, almost giddy.
He broke free from his past. He took action and shed his connection to Dredd. And, more importantly, from Fallon, whose natural life should have ended over a century ago.
“It was only a ploy,” Derrick had explained earlier, referring to his family’s attempt to reclaim the Rawley and Spicer homesteads for themselves. “I don’t want this land. I never did, it was only ever for Fallon’s sake. I hate Montana, if you want to know the truth. I fucking hate nature. I’ve wanted to move to Manhattan for years now and I told my father so this evening.”
“What about Fallon?” Tish whispered. “How will you explain his absence?”
We would not learn until much later exactly what had occurred in the final moments of Fallon’s life; Ruthie was unable to speak of it for many months afterward. At that point, I assumed Fallon had died from gunshot wounds inflicted by Malcolm and Cole. Derrick responded quietly, “No one in this century ever has to know, for sure. My father will assume, I suppose, that Fallon reached a point where he was unable to return to the future. Or that he simply died in the past.” Derrick’s brows drew inward. “He should have died long ago, as it is.”
“I think it’s a wonderful decision for you, moving to New York. It suits you. You seem different. But in a good way,” Tish added hastily. “I mean that.”
Derrick looked intently at her for only a second, before sighing and softening his gaze. “It is pretty wonderful, isn’t it?” A small smile tipped his lips. “I’d hate to come up against you in a court of law. I wouldn’t stand a chance.”
Robbie Benson was still alive in this timeline. Tish had called him almost immediately after we’d spoken to Mom and Aunt Jilly, to Grandma and Aunt Ellen – everyone in Landon accounted for, their lives, and therefore ours, blessedly returned to normal; at some point, I would ask Aunt Jilly if she remembered anything. No one else seemed to retain a hint of it, thank goodness, but Robbie had in fact remembered something even more important – Tish’s warning to steer clear of all dealings with the Turnbulls. After law school he had gone to work for a small nonprofit and lived in a Chicago suburb along with his wife, a woman he’d met in France while on spring break.
Ruthie called later with the news that Marshall was in stable condition, currently sleeping, and that she and Clark would stay in Miles City until he was discharged; Garth and Becky were on their way back to Jalesville.
“Are you all right? Have you taken a second to sit down?” I demanded. I’d left the living room so there was a chance of hearing her over the din; I sank to sit cross-legged on the carpet in the hallway leading to the back of Clark’s house. “You sound like you’re ready to collapse. And you’re pregnant!”
Ruthie laughed, a soft expulsion of breath. “I’m more than all right. We’re home, Marshall is safe.” I pictured her sweet, beautiful face bathed in the low-wattage glow of the lights in Marshall’s hospital room, surely dimmed for sleeping. After a weighty pause, she whispered, “Camille. Oh, God, Milla. There’s so much we have to talk about. Not right now… but soon. Promise?”
“I promise.” I rested the back of my head on the wall, closing my eyes so no tears would escape. “We’ll stay in Montana for a while longer, don’t worry. Besides, everyone is flying out here tomorrow, Mom and Blythe and everyone. Be prepared!”
She laughed again, simultaneously clearing her throat; I heard her sniffling and imagined her swiping at tears. “It’s just…there’s so many things we left unresolved, so much I don’t know. And I don’t know if I’m brave enough to ever know.”
I understood on a deep, absolute level.
“What happened to Axton, to Patricia and Cole and the baby? I left them all so quickly, they’ll never know what really happened to Marshall and me. Birdie and Celia will be so worried. Ax won’t know what to do. Oh God…” Ruthie’s voice broke.
“I know, honey, I really do.”
She sniffled again, with a small, choked gulp. “Derrick told me a little about you and Malcolm. Oh, Camille, I know how that must have been. When I realized who Miles really was…just before he died…” Crying now, she was overcome, beyond exhaustion, and I wished I could wrap her in my arms.
“Ruthie, we’ll talk when you’re ready. I’m here for you, always. I promise.”
“Thank you,” she managed at last. “I don’t know what I would do without you and Tish.”
“That’s what sisters are for.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Landon, MN - July, 2018
“THIS FEELS SO ILLICIT,” MARSHALL WHISPERED, PEERING around as if it was bright midday rather than deep night. Thick with heat and humidity, the summer air felt like juice. Crickets and gray peepers sang in harmony, accompanied by the occasional bullfrog; the stars glittered with no moon to overshadow them, dotting Flickertail’s smooth surface with reflected diamonds.
“Hurry, honey, the mosquitoes are going to eat us alive.” I giggled, slipping on the dew-damp bank as we scurried toward the water; the dock boards trembled beneath our bare feet. I turned so that my back was angled toward him and ordered, “Untie me, quick, before they carry us away.”
“Oh God, with pleasure,” he groaned, cupping my breasts from behind, lightly jiggling them against his wide palms before untying my bikini top and slipping the straps from my shoulders. He gently bit my nape, exposed by my pinned-up hair, and then, with a muted roar, leaped from the end of the dock, sending cold droplets arcing over me as he cannonballed into the water.
“You aren’t naked!” I yelled in a whisper, hands on hips.
Treading water ten feet out, I saw the bright flash of his teeth as he grinned. “I ain’t taking no chances,” he teased. “Too many fish!”
I stepped delicately from my bottoms and Marshall executed a surface dive, gliding toward me beneath the lake. He reached the dock and rested his elbows on the end board, water pearling from his wide shoulders, catching my ankles in his chilly hands. Wet hair slicked back from his forehead, he offered up a wicked smile. “This is a heavenly view, angel,” he murmured, eyes all over my naked flesh.
Our third child and first daughter had joined our family only three months ago – and our sex life had taken a wee bit of a hit since then, t
o say the least. To indulge in this moment of unhurried and undiluted lust with my husband felt so damn good I didn’t even mind the subsequent mosquito bites.
“May I join you?” I asked demurely, the one to cup my breasts this time, gently tracing my thumbs over my distended nipples. Almost immediately my letdown reflex prickled to life, drenching my skin with sticky milk. “Oops…dammit…”
“Get in here, woman, right this second. I need you like I’ve never needed anything in this world.” Marsh was giddy with bliss at our secret, skinny-dipping date. “I can’t believe how hard I am in this cold water… here, feel, hurry…”
Giggling like a teenager I did indeed hurry, joining him with a noisy splash, surfacing to wrap all around his almost-nude body.
“You are hard, you feel so good…get these stupid trunks off…”
His mouth was too full to respond, his hands too busy to obey my breathless order, and so I made short work of his swimwear, slipping it down just enough to expose the enormous evidence of his desire. Marsh slid both hands along the length of my thighs, sleek and buoyant under the water, drawing them around his hips and deepening our kisses, groaning against my lips. It had been weeks since we’d last managed to sneak in a round of lovemaking and I tore my mouth from his to insist, “Don’t come too quick, honey…”
“I can’t promise…” And he groaned again, inspiring a new round of giggling, as he slid fully home, grasping my ass in both hands.
“Slow,” I demanded in a whisper, licking his lower lip, taking him deep; he was so hard he could probably have pole-vaulted and my giggles dissolved in a wave of pure heat.
“Slow?” he repeated in teasing disbelief. “Holy God, woman, I’m about to explode…”
I ran my fingers repeatedly through his damp hair, which fell past his shoulders when wet. He’d long since shaved his winter beard but his jaws were deliciously stubbled here in the late-night hours as he rubbed his chin against my neck, circling his tongue around my taut nipples until I shivered; biting his earlobe, I met his thrusts with renewed energy.
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