by James, Sandy
Well, then that makes me the heroine!
No. No way. Romance heroines were always ridiculously young. Eighteen, maybe nineteen years old. Not in a blue moon would a heroine be a thirty-nine-year-old woman who’d been married close to twenty years. They always had long blonde hair that hung all the way to their tight little asses. They had tiny waists the hero could span with his calloused hands. They even had perky boobs.
And what do I have? Short, mousey brown hair. A waist Shaquille O’Neal couldn’t circle with his mammoth mitts. And boobs dropping faster than the stock market in late 1929. No, Susan didn’t look like the beautiful heroine from any book she’d ever read.
Maybe that made James the hero. Maybe her husband was the knight in shining armor or the handsome laird who could protect the maiden in distress. Heroes were handsome. They had thick, wavy dark hair. They had huge muscles and narrow waists and six-pack abs. And each had a gigantic penis.
No. That wasn’t right, either. She’d always thought James was handsome, but he wasn’t exactly George Clooney. His soft brown hair had grayed at the temples. He jogged, so he wasn’t chubby, but he did keep a stash of peanut butter cups hidden in his sock drawer. Six-pack abs? She shook her head and tried not to laugh aloud. Gigantic penis? A giggle slipped out. It was a very nice penis, but gigantic? Of course, men didn’t have a sense of humor about that.
“What are you laughing at?” James asked.
Like she’d tell him.
Reality made Susan sober quickly. If this was a romance novel she found herself in, it sure wasn’t a very good one. The sun was setting, and she had no idea where they could spend the night. Her stomach rumbled its emptiness, and her head hurt from the ramifications of the whole situation.
James reached out, took her hand, and gave it a squeeze. “Let’s make the best of this. We need a place to stay ’til we figure out how to get out of this interactive nightmare.”
Susan’s first reaction was to shake her head. The man was clueless. He still thought they were in the twenty-first century. Shit, but he probably thought there was a way out of this Outer Limits episode. She pulled her hand out of his grasp.
James shot her an annoyed glare and folded his arms over his chest. “So I suppose you’ve got it all figured out. As usual.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Susan always knows best.” With a flourish of his hand, he gave her a condescending bow.
A fight. The obtuse man was picking another fight. She didn’t have the energy or the inclination to oblige him. There were things to figure out—important things. With a blatant dismissal of his sarcasm, she turned her back and twisted the situation around in her mind, trying to remember the books she’d read and the journeys the characters always took to reach their blissful epilogue. At least there was always a blissful epilogue, so at least she had something to look forward to.
It took all of James’s strength not to blow up at her. Susan had gone off in her own little world, obviously thinking he couldn’t help at all. Like he was one of her damned students. He was sick of it. He was a man, and he wasn’t going to let her emasculate him. “You know what?” She actually paid enough attention to arch a tawny eyebrow his direction. “I’m heading to that boarding house and finding out what I’ve gotta do to get a room for tonight. You’re welcome to stand out here and try to come up with a better solution, or you can come with me.”
Turning on his heel, he stalked down the wooden walkway toward the two-story building with a sign advertising rooms to rent. Amazingly, Susan followed.
Reaching the entrance, James pushed the door open for his wife. His gaze swept the large dining room. A few people sat at tables, eating what smelled like good food. A deep growl from his stomach made Susan smile. “I’m starving too,” she said.
Before he could reply, he saw a man who appeared to be an employee. “Wait here.” Striding confidently over, James extended his hand. “Hi. I’m James Williams.” He shook the man’s hand. “I’d like to get a room for tonight for the lady and me.” A nod toward his wife. “We’re short of cash, but I’d be willing to do some odd jobs to help you out in return for a meal and a room.”
The pencil-thin man stared at James for a moment before he shifted his gaze to Susan. “She ready to do some work too? Need you both to work if you’re wantin’ a room for a night.”
Thinking he was offering only himself up for hire, James hadn’t considered his wife’s willingness to help. That reticence only lasted a moment. Susan had been a hard worker from the moment he’d met her. Hell, she’d been working when he’d met her, flipping burgers and waiting on people in a fast food restaurant.
James had been instantly enchanted. Not necessarily with her looks, although Susan was beautiful. No, it was that bright sparkle in her eyes when he’d teased her. That and the fact that she didn’t back down. No, that Susan had given back as good as she got, capturing him with her sharp wit. He’d asked her out on the spot, something he’d never done before that night, instead choosing to meet the few girls he’d dated through friends. Geeky guys didn’t get many dates. His teens had been more awkward than he cared to recall. At least they had been until he’d met Susan.
They’d literally grown up together, married in college, and started a family much too soon. But they’d made a good life together. Two wonderful kids. A nice suburban house. Money that neither of them spent frivolously. So why did he hate his life so much?
Because his job was boring and banal. Because his wife, the only woman he’d ever loved, didn’t want him anymore. And because he drove a minivan. He actually drove a goddamn minivan. How much more emasculated could a poor guy get?
Focus on the problem at hand. Now’s not the time for soulful introspection. “I’m sure she will,” James assured the man. “What did you have in mind?”
* * * *
“All of ’em,” the skinny guy said as he pointed a bony finger at stacks of dishes that looked to Susan like the type she’d see in cartoons. They’d been piled so ridiculously high, they leaned like the tower in Pisa.
Susan gave him a curt nod and rolled up her sleeves, resigned to washing dishes in return for a place for her and James to sleep that night. Hard work never killed her. No, the type A person inside her actually thrived on it.
James had been sent out back. She could only guess what task the proprietor delegated to him. What did guys do in 1880?
1880. Susan’s mind was still flying in a thousand different directions over her new circumstances. At least she wasn’t wallowing in denial like her husband.
Maybe that explained why he hadn’t grieved over the child they lost. Had he even dealt with the tragedy? She’d cried a river of tears. The only ones she had seen him shed came when the doctor gave them the news as he ran the ultrasound probe over her womb.
Shaking off the melancholy memories, Susan decided to take the lead. She was the one who understood what was happening, so she’d be the one to deal with this problem.
Just like childbirth. The man always pretended he was participating, but the woman did all the work.
Now she had stacks of dishes to wash and nothing but a sink with a cistern pump to wash them in. No hot water. Not unless she boiled it on the stove. And where was the damned soap?
The nineteenth century sucks.
At least when she finished, she could put together a meal and get some much-needed sleep. Then Susan could put her weary mind to what they could do next.
Like I’ve got a clue.
Dish after dirty dish, she lost herself in thought, turning around plot after plot from her romance novels. None of them fit. Not a damned one. None of those stories explained what was happening to her now. None of them offered her a hint of a solution to this predicament.
The main issue, as far as Susan saw it, was the uniqueness of her situation. Not the time travel aspect, although she had to admit that Albert Einstein obviously knew his stuff. Tons of romances dealt with time travel. She’d re
ad A Love Beyond Time so many times, the book’s spine split. No, the main issue was the fact that she was here in 1880 with her husband. Romances were never about married couples. The epilogue, the happily ever after marriage, was always the end, not the beginning.
But Susan never got her happily ever after. Not all of it, at least. Things used to be great between her and James.
What did she have now?
A twenty-year marriage being held together by mere threads. She loved her husband. She desired her husband. But she didn’t like the man he’d become, the one who didn’t even mourn their lost child. And it was clear he didn’t like her much, either. Somewhere, somehow, they’d lost each other, and she wasn’t sure they could ever find their way back.
Stacking more dishes next to the sink, Susan attacked them, hoping sometime before she reached the end of the pile, she would find a solution to this whole enigma.
* * * *
James strode into the kitchen. He hadn’t felt so relaxed in a long while. In an odd way, chopping wood had actually been therapeutic. Swinging an ax, watching the fruits of his labor pile up next to him, he felt like he’d accomplished something. Being an engineer was akin to running on a treadmill. He never saw an end to the monotonous journey.
Blueprints. Shop drawings. More calculations. Buildings stood stalwart because of what he did, but he rarely watched them go up. He didn’t get to see how what he’d done contributed to the creation of a landmark. His vocational victories were few and far between. Seeing that split wood grow from a few pieces to an enormous mound felt satisfying. The only thing missing was having people around to talk to.
Susan dropped a dishtowel on the big butcher-block worktable and turned to face him. She gave him a small smile until her gaze dropped to his hands. “Oh, my God. What happened to you?”
How odd. He hadn’t felt the blisters until his wife mentioned them. Looking at his hands, James realized he’d made a mess of his fingers and palms. He shrugged. “Worked off some frustration chopping wood. Guess I traded some blisters to get peace of mind.”
Susan put a gentle hand on his wrist and led him to the sink. She pumped the handle of the cistern until water poured from the spout. James held his hands under the ice cold water, trying not to flinch. After she’d washed away the blood and grime, she grabbed another dishtowel and patted his hands dry. “I’m so sorry.”
So like his wife, taking all the blame on herself. Always thinking everything was within her control. He felt both touched that she cared for him and angry that she seemed to think nothing he did ever mattered. James wasn’t even sure what to say to her remark, so he just gave his shoulders a casual shrug again, a gesture he now realized he used far too often.
The owner came walking into the kitchen, carrying a big ring of huge keys that jingled as he walked. His gaze swept the kitchen, then a tight smile crossed his lips. He nodded at a small door. “’Pears you kept up your end of the bargain,” he said to James. “That’s the pantry. Fix yourselves somethin’ to eat. You can have the last room on the left in the upstairs hallway. It’s ready.”
He plucked a key from the ring and handed it to James. Susan intercepted it, taking it right out of the guy’s hand. “Thanks,” she said. James waited for the chaser. The owner shot her a perturbed look before he walked out of the kitchen as quickly as he’d arrived. “For nothin’,” she finally added. “Chauvinist pig. What do you want to eat, honey?”
She shoved the key into the front pocket of her jeans and walked over to open the pantry door. Without waiting for an answer, she disappeared into the tiny room for a few moments before coming back out with some bread and a large block of hard cheese.
“Not much to eat in there?” James asked.
“Nothing else I’d trust to eat without refrigeration. It’s 1880. Remember?”
Susan’s condescending tone grated on him. “It’s a re-creation of 1880. I’m sure there’s a fridge for the meat. These people don’t want to get sued for causing an outbreak of food poisoning.”
She leveled a patronizing stare at him that told him she thought he was wrong. Without a word, she dropped the food on the table. Grabbing a knife from a huge carving block, she sliced off four pieces of bread and some thick slabs of cheese before stacking them into sandwiches. She handed one to James and took a bite out of the other.
James ate the sandwich, not really concerned with its taste. He was hungry and tired. All he wanted to do was fill his rumbling stomach and find a comfortable bed.
Susan only picked at her sandwich before finally holding it out to him as an offering. “You sure you’re done?” James asked, taking the food. She nodded and leaned back against the table as he finished off what was left of her sandwich.
“You’re in denial.” Her stare was intense as he ate. “First stage, you know.”
“First stage of what?”
“Grief. You’re acting like none of this is real, like we’re not in 1880.”
Good God, she was using psychobabble on him. “You don’t really believe—”
“Yes, I do,” Susan interrupted. “I’ve got to figure out how to get us home.”
She’d lost her marbles. “This isn’t The Wizard of Oz, babe. We’re not in the nineteenth century.”
“Then how do you explain…all this.” An arm swept out to indicate the rustic kitchen.
He almost shrugged before he realized that would probably piss her off. Perhaps it was easier to just play along. Holding up his hands in surrender and for her to see his guilt-provoking blisters again, he said, “I don’t suppose they have Band-Aids in 1880.”
“Nope. Sorry.” At least the comment got a grin which was followed by an extended yawn. “God, I’m tired.”
James couldn’t suppress his own responding yawn. “Let’s get some sleep. Maybe we can figure out how to get home in the morning.”
“I’m worried about John.”
“I know, Suz. So am I. But what can we do about him right now? Let’s get some rest and start fresh in the morning.”
Her gaze dropped as she nodded in resignation.
Susan led the way up the stairs and opened the door to the room with the big key. She walked over to the dresser and picked up a small box of matches. It took her three tries to light the small wick of the oil lamp resting on the dresser so they could get a good look around.
The room they’d worked so hard to earn was smaller than any of the walk-in closets in their Chicago home. The mattress looked lumpier than Susan’s mashed potatoes. No bathroom, just a small table with a ceramic pitcher and bowl. At that point, James didn’t figure she was any more particular than he was. Susan strode over to the open window. “Oh, my God,” she said before she suddenly slammed it shut.
“What?” James tried to take off his shoes with hands that were almost too stiff and swollen to move. He resorted to stepping on the heels to pry them off.
“The outhouse is right outside the window. I’m not in the mood to smell it all night. Reminds me too much of summer camp.”
James stretched out on the bed and patted the spot next to him. Not that there was a lot of room, but if they spooned, maybe they could both fit.
Sitting on the side of the uncomfortable mattress, Susan took off her shoes before lying down. James snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her back against his front, a position they spent quite a bit of time in back in Chicago. He’d learned early on that he couldn’t sleep well without Susan next to him, without being able to curve his body around hers. Anytime he was forced out of town for some meeting, he missed having her snuggled back against him.
Now, her sweet scent and her warmth relaxed him. Her deep, even breathing served as a lullaby. Right before James drifted off to sleep, he simply accepted his new circumstances, thinking how much more he enjoyed 1880 than his own time.
This was going to be a hell of an adventure.
Chapter 5
Susan could smell bacon and coffee, but her eyes refused to open and face the
new day. She hadn’t heard the alarm. Must be a Saturday. There were a few more minutes before she would have to confront the cleaning, the laundry, and the week’s worth of mail sitting by the phone.
Her dream had been so vivid, so real, she struggled to realize it was just that—a dream. A flippin’ nightmare, actually. And the silly thing seemed to go on forever. How utterly ridiculous. Going back in time to live in the Wild West? She didn’t feel James’s warmth pressed against her back, so she decided to roll over to his pillow and indulge herself in a few more minutes of sleep, hoping a better dream would appear. She hit the hardwood floor face first.
No. No. No.
It wasn’t a dream. The same ancient room. The same tiny, lumpy bed. The same rough-hewn dresser. A sickening knot formed in her stomach.
James was gone, and for a panicked moment, she feared he’d abandoned her. Or worse, that he’d only been a figment of her time-traveling imagination. Susan grabbed her shoes, shoved her feet inside them, and hurried out of the room.
Flying down the stairs, she was frantic to find her husband. She spotted him before she reached the bottom step, the first stroke of luck she’d had since this odyssey began.
James stood by the front door, talking with the boarding house owner. The man shook his head at everything James said. Since her husband seemed to be having trouble, she thought about going over and talking to the owner herself. Then she remembered what a jerk he’d been toward her and figured women in 1880 weren’t allowed to interfere with something as important as business, even if that business was deciding how many dishes she needed to wash to pay for a room.
Her bladder felt full enough to be painful, so she left through the back door to find the outhouse. She had to breathe through her mouth or the stench made her gag. Thank God her period had just ended so she wouldn’t have to learn firsthand what “on the rag” meant. No toilet paper. Just a few pages of what looked like a mail order catalog stuck to the door with a big, rusty nail.
