Time Was

by Nora Roberts

She didn’t feel like one. She felt real, shatteringly real, and terrified. “I have to bank the fire for the night, and you should go back to bed.”

  “We can bank the fire for the night. Then we can go to bed.”

  She squared her shoulders, furious at the realization that her palms were sweating. She would not stammer, she promised herself. She would not act the inexperienced fool. She would handle him the way a strong, independent woman would, a woman who knew her own mind. “I’m not going to sleep with you. I don’t know you.”

  So that was a condition, Cal mused. After thinking it over, he found it rather sweet and not completely unreasonable. “All right. How long do you need?”

  She stared at him. At length she dragged both hands through her hair. “I can’t figure out if you’re joking or not, but I do know you’re the oddest man I’ve ever met.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.” He watched her bank the fire carefully. Competent hands, he thought, an athletic body, and the most vulnerable eyes he’d ever seen. “We’ll get to know each other tomorrow. Then we’ll sleep together.”

  She straightened so quickly that she rapped her head on the mantel. Swearing and rubbing her head, she turned to him. “Not necessarily. In fact it’s very unlikely.”

  He took the screen and placed it in front of the fire, exactly as he had seen her do earlier. “Why?”

  “Because . . .” Flustered, she fumbled for words for a moment. “I don’t do that kind of thing.”

  She recognized genuine astonishment when she saw it. It was staring at her now out of Cal’s dark blue eyes. “At all?”

  “Really, Hornblower, that’s none of your business.” Dignity helped, but not a great deal. As she swept up the tray, the bowls slid dangerously, and they would have crashed to the floor if he hadn’t caught the end of the tray and balanced it.

  “Why are you angry? I only want to make love with you.”

  “Listen.” She took a deep breath. “I’ve had enough of all this. I did you a favor, and I don’t appreciate you insinuating that I should hop into bed with you just because you’ve—you’ve got an itch. I don’t find it flattering—in fact, I find it very insulting—that you think I’d make love with a perfect stranger just because it’s convenient.”

  He tilted his head, trying to take it all in. “Is inconvenient better?”

  She could only grit her teeth. “Listen, Hornblower, I’ll drop you off at the nearest singles bar the minute we can get out of here. Until then, keep your distance.”

  With that, she stormed out of the room. He could hear the dishes crash in the kitchen.

  He dug his hands in his pockets again as he started upstairs. Twentieth-century women were very difficult to understand. Fascinating, he admitted, but difficult.

  And what in the hell was a singles bar?

  Chapter 3

  He felt almost normal in the morning. Normal, Cal thought, if you considered he hadn’t even been born yet. It was a bizarre situation, highly improbable according to most of the current scientific theories, and deep down he clung to the faint hope that he was having some kind of long, involved dream.

  If he was lucky, he was in a hospital suffering from shock and a little brain damage. But from the looks of things he’d been snapped back over two centuries into the primitive, often violent twentieth century.

  The last thing he could remember before waking up on Libby’s couch was flying his ship. No, that wasn’t quite accurate. He’d been fighting to fly his ship. Something had happened. . . . He couldn’t quite bring that into focus yet. Whatever it had been, it had been big.

  His name was Caleb Hornblower. He’d been born in the year 2222. That made two his lucky number, he remembered with a half laugh. He was thirty, unmatched, the older of two sons, and a former member of the International Space Force. He’d been a captain, and for the last eighteen months he’d been an independent. He’d made a routine supply delivery to the Brigston Colony on Mars and had veered off from his normal route on the return trip home because of a meteor shower. Then it had happened. Whatever it was.

  Now he had to accept the fact that something had shot him back in time. He had crashed, not only through Earth’s atmosphere, but through about two and a half centuries. He was a healthy, intelligent flier who was stuck in a time when people considered interplanetary travel the stuff of science fiction and were, incredibly, playing around with nuclear fission.

  The good part was that the experience hadn’t killed him and he’d landed in an isolated area in the hands of a gorgeous brunette.

  It could, he supposed, be worse.

  His problem at the moment was figuring out how he could get back to his own time. Alive.

  He adjusted his pillow, scratched at the stubble on his chin and wondered what Libby’s reaction would be if he went downstairs and calmly related his story.

  He’d probably find himself out the door, wearing no more than her father’s sweats. Or she’d call the authorities and have him hauled off to whatever passed for rest-and-rehabilitation clinics at this point in time. He didn’t imagine they were luxury resorts.

  What annoyed him at the moment was that he’d been a poor history student. What he knew about the twentieth century would barely fill a computer screen. But he imagined they would have a pretty primitive way of dealing with a man who claimed he’d crashed his F27 into a mountain after making a routine run to Mars.

  Until he could find a way out, he was going to have to keep his problem to himself. In order to do so, he’d have to be more careful about what he said. And what he did.

  He’d obviously made a misstep the night before. In more ways than one. He grimaced as he recalled Libby’s reaction to his simple suggestion that they spend the night together. Things were obviously done differently then—no, now, he corrected. It was a pity he hadn’t paid more attention to those old romances his mother liked to read.

  In any case, his problems ran a lot deeper than having been rejected by a beautiful woman. He had to get back to his ship, had to try to reconstruct what had happened in his head. Then he had to make it happen in reality. As far as he could see, that was the only way to get home again.

  She had a computer, he remembered. As archaic as it was, between that and the mini on his wrist he might be able to calculate a trajectory.

  Right now he wanted a shower, a shave and some more of Libby’s eggs. He opened his door and nearly walked into her.

  The cup of coffee she held was steaming, and she nearly splashed it all over his bare chest. Libby righted it, though she thought a little scalding was just what he deserved.

  “I thought you might like some coffee.”

  “Thanks.” He noted that her voice was frigid, her back stiff. Unless he missed his guess, women hadn’t changed that much. The cold shoulder never went out of style. “I want to apologize,” he began, offering her his best smile. “I know I veered out of orbit last night.”

  “That’s one way of putting it.”

  “What I mean is . . . you were right and I was wrong.” If that didn’t do the trick, he knew nothing about the nature of women.

  “All right.” Nothing made her more uncomfortable than holding a grudge. “We’ll forget it.”

  “Is it okay if I think you have beautiful eyes?” He saw her blush and was utterly charmed.

  “I suppose.” The corners of her mouth turned up. She’d been right about the Celtic blood, she reflected. If the man didn’t have Irish ancestors, she’d have to go into a different line of work. “If you can’t help it.”

  He held out a hand. “Friends?”

  “Friends.” The moment she put her hand in his she wondered why it felt as though she’d made a mistake. Or jumped off a bridge. He had a way of using only the barest brush of his fingertips to send her pulse scrambling. Slowly, wishing he w
asn’t so obviously aware of her reaction, she drew her hand away. “I’m going to fix breakfast.”

  “Is it all right if I have a shower?”

  “Sure. I’ll show you where everything is.” More comfortable with something practical to do, she led the way down the hall. “Clean towels in the closet.” She opened a narrow louvered door. “Here’s a razor if you want to shave.” She offered him a disposable safety razor and a can of shaving cream. “Something wrong?” He was staring at the items she offered as though they were instruments of torture. “I guess you’re used to an electric,” she said, “but I don’t have one.”

  “No.” He managed a weak smile, hoping he wouldn’t slit his throat. “This is fine.”

  “Toothbrush.” Trying not to stare at him, she handed him a spare that was still in its box. “We don’t have an electric one of these, either.”

  “I’ll, ah, rough it.”

  “Fine. Take whatever looks like it will fit out of the bedroom. There should be jeans and sweaters. I’ll have something ready in a half hour. Time enough?”

  “Sure.”

  Cal was still staring at the toiletries in his hands when she shut the door.

  Fascinating. Now that he was over the panic, the fear and the disbelief, he was finding the whole episode fascinating. He studied the cardboard box and toothbrush with a grin, like a boy who’d found a fabulous puzzle under the Christmas tree.

  They were supposed to use these things three times a day, he remembered. He’d read all about it. They had different flavors of paste that they scrubbed all over their teeth. Sounded revolting. Cal squirted a dab of the shaving cream on his finger. Gamely he touched it to his tongue. It was revolting. How had anyone tolerated it? Of course, that had all been in the days before tooth and gum diseases had been eradicated by fluoratyne.

  After opening the box, he ran a thumb over the bristles. Interesting. He grimaced into the mirror, studying his strong white teeth. Maybe he shouldn’t take any chances.

  Setting everything on the sink, he turned to look at the bathroom. It was like something out of those old videos, he thought. The clunky oval tub, with its single awkward-looking shower head sticking out of the wall. He would start filing it all away. Who could tell, maybe he’d write a book when he got home.

  Of more immediate importance was figuring out how to operate the shower. Above the lip of the tub were three round white knobs. One was marked H, another C, and the middle was graced with an arrow. Cal scowled at them. He could certainly figure out that they meant Hot and Cold, but it was a far cry from the individual temperature settings he was accustomed to. There would be no stepping inside and telling the computerized unit he wanted ninety-eight degrees at a mist. It was fend-for-yourself.

  He scalded himself first, then froze, then scalded himself again before he and the shower began to understand each other. Once it was running smoothly he could appreciate the feel of hot water beating down on his skin. He found a bottle marked Shampoo, took a moment to be amused by the packaging, then dumped some in his hand.

  It smelled like Libby.

  Almost immediately his stomach muscles tightened, and a wave of desire flowed over him, as hot as the water on his back. That was odd. Baffled, he continued to stare down at the pool of shampoo. Attraction had always been easy—simple, basic. But this was painful. He pressed a hand to his stomach and waited for it to pass. But it persisted.

  It probably had to do with the accident. That was what he told himself, and what he preferred to believe. When he got back home he’d have to check into a rest center for a full workup. But he’d lost his pleasure in the shower. He toweled off quickly. The scent of soap and shampoo—and Libby—was everywhere.

  ***

  The jeans were a little loose in the waist, but he liked them. Natural cotton was so outrageously expensive that no one but the very rich could afford it. The black roll-necked sweater had a hole in the cuff and made him feel at home. He’d always preferred casual, comfortable clothes. One of the reasons he’d left the ISF was that they had a penchant for uniforms and polish. Barefoot and pleased with himself, he followed the scents of cooking into the kitchen.

  She looked great. Her baggy pants accentuated her slenderness and made a man imagine all the curves and angles beneath the material. He liked the way she’d pushed the sleeves of the bulky red sweater up past her elbows. She had very sensitive elbows, he recalled, and felt his stomach knot again.

  He wasn’t going to think of her that way. He’d promised himself.

  “Hi.”

  This time she was expecting him, and she didn’t jump. “Hi. Sit down. You can eat before I check your bandage. I hope you like French toast.” She turned, holding a plate heaped with it. When their eyes met, her fingers curled tight around the edges. She recognized the sweater, but it didn’t remind her of her father when it was tugged over Cal’s long, limber torso. “You didn’t shave.”

  “I forgot.” He didn’t want to admit he’d been afraid to try his skill at it. “It stopped raining.”

  “I know. The sun’s supposed to come out this afternoon.” She set the platter down, then tried not to react when he leaned over her to sniff at the food.

  “Did you really make that?”

  “Breakfast is my best meal.” She sat down, breathing a little sigh of relief when he took the seat across from her.

  “I could get used to this.”

  “Eating?”

  He took his first bite and let his eyes close with a sigh of pure pleasure. “Eating like this.”

  She watched him plow through the first stack. “How did you eat before?”

  “Packaged stuff, mostly.” He’d seen ads for complete meals in packages in the newspaper. At least there was some hope for civilization.

  “I live like that myself most of the time. When I come here I get the urge to cook, stack wood, grow herbs. The kind of things we did when I was a kid.” And though she’d come here for solitude, she’d discovered she enjoyed his company. He seemed safe this morning, despite her initial reaction to the way he looked in the black sweater and trim jeans. She could almost believe she’d imagined the tense and unexpected little scene by the fire the night before.

  “What do you do when you’re not crashing planes?”

  “I fly.” He’d already thought his answer through and had decided it was best to stick as close to the truth as possible.

  “Then you are in the service.”

  “Not anymore.” He picked up his coffee and smoothly changed the subject. “I don’t know if I’ve really thanked you properly for everything you’ve done. I’d like to pay you back for all this, Libby. Do you need anything done around here?”

  “I don’t think you’re up to manual labor at this point.”

  “If I stay in bed all day again I’ll go crazy.”

  She took a good look at his face, trying not to be distracted by the shape of his mouth. It was impossible to forget how close she’d come to feeling it on hers. “Your color’s good. No dizziness?”

  “No.”

  “You can help me wash the dishes.”

  “Sure.” He took his first good look at the kitchen. Like the bath, it distracted and fascinated him. The west wall was stone, with a little hearth cut into it. There was a hammered copper urn on the ledge stuffed with tall dried flowers and weeds. The wide window over the sink opened onto a view of mountains and pine. The sky was gray and clear of traffic. He identified the refrigerator and the stove, both a glossy white. The wide planked-wood floor shone with a polished luster. It felt cool and smooth under his bare feet.

  “Looking for something?”

  With a little shake of his head, he glanced back at her. “Sorry?”

  “The way you were staring out the window, it seemed you were expecting to see something that wasn’t there
.”

  “Just, ah . . . taking in the view.”

  Satisfied, she gestured toward his plate. “Are you finished?”

  “Yeah. This is a great room.”

  “I’ve always liked it. Of course, it’s a lot more convenient with the new range. You wouldn’t believe the old museum piece we used to cook on.”

  He couldn’t keep from grinning. “I’m sure I wouldn’t.”

  “Why do I get the feeling there’s a joke and it’s two inches above my head?”

  “I couldn’t say.” After picking up his plate, he moved to the sink and began to open cupboards.

  “If you’re looking for a dishwasher, you’re out of luck.” Libby stacked the rest of the breakfast dishes in the sink. “My parents would never bend their sixties values that far. No dishwasher, no microwave, no satellite dish.” She plugged the sink, then reached in front of Caleb for the bottle of dish detergent. “You want to wash or dry?”

  “I’ll dry.”

  He watched, delighted, as she filled the sink with hot, soapy water and began to scrub. Even the smell was nice, he thought, resisting the urge to bend down and sniff at the lemony bubbles.

  Libby rubbed an itch on her nose with her shoulder. “Come on, Hornblower, haven’t you ever seen a woman wash dishes before?”

  He decided to test her reaction. “No. Actually, I think I did in a movie once.”

  With a bubbling laugh, she handed him a plate. “Progress steals all these charming duties from us. In another hundred years we’ll probably have robots that will stack the dishes inside themselves and sterilize them.”

  “More like a hundred and fifty. What do you want me to do with this?” He turned the plate in his hand.

  “Dry it.”

  “How?”

  She lifted a brow and nodded toward a neatly folded cloth. “You might try that.”

  “Right.” He dried the plate and picked up another. “I was hoping to go take a look of what’s left of my sh—my plane.”

  “I can almost guarantee the logging trail’s washed out. The Land Rover might make it, but I’d really like to give it another day.”