by Angel Smits
“One of the benefits of being your own boss. Johnny is handling it.” He looked around the room. “Pretty fancy place.”
She stood silent, waiting for a spark of recognition in his voice. Disappointment filled her when he showed no reaction. This wasn’t the place to be alone with him. “Opal, you’ve got a customer,” she called. The woman failed to materialize from around the corner.
“Opal?” Faith walked back to where the older woman had been sitting. The chair was empty. Odd, there had been no other visitors since she’d arrived. “I don’t know where she went. I’m sure she’ll be right back.”
“Why don’t you give me the tour?” He looked down at her in silent challenge. “You could tell me more about your work.”
She didn’t want to be alone with him. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Oh, I do.” He slowly walked toward her.
He stood too close. Surely he was the one sucking up all the air in the room. His eyes were close enough for her to see the deep blue color. Hastily, she stepped away. “I don’t really know that much about the history without my notes.”
“That’s okay. I’m not exactly a history kind of guy. Just give me the abridged tour.”
His thumbs slid into his belt loops, stretching his shirt tight across his chest. She had enough difficulty concentrating, now this? Did he have the slightest inkling of what he was doing to her?
“Th . . . this is the parlor.” She turned away from him and gestured to the room behind her. “That chair is from France, imported over a hundred years ago. All the furnishings and fixtures are original to the house.” She found herself relying on Opal’s well-rehearsed speech she’d heard yesterday.
“So, what? They had nice furnishings. Tell me about the people who lived here. Isn’t that what you said you were interested in, the people?” He didn’t bother to look at the antiques she’d described. He stared directly at her.
“Yes.” She edged toward the door to the dining room. The look in his eyes made her feel like prey being sighted through a scope.
“So who lived here?”
“Uh, ladies.”
“Ladies of the evening?” he teased.
“Yes.” She quickly turned and walked through the door to the dining room. “This room was used for formal dinners. As you can see there are doors that close it off from the rest of the house. There’s an outer door in that wall used by prominent gentlemen who came here for thousand dollar dinners, including the governor. They didn’t want to be seen by others who might be in the house.” Faith knew she babbled, but his stare and close, warm body made her nervous.
“Where is the stairway up to the girls’ rooms?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re not going to convince me that they came here only to eat dinner.” His words were filled with laughter.
“No. I’m sure they didn’t.” She gulped back the images forming in her mind. “I guess you’ll have to ask Opal when she shows up. I never really thought about it.”
“Never thought about it? What’d you think they did?” There was more than laughter in his voice now. He was taunting her.
“Very funny. Do you want a tour or not?”
“Yes. Please proceed.” He bowed slightly at the waist and gestured for her to go into the next room, which was the salon.
“The wallpaper in this room was also imported from France. In 1890 it cost a hundred and fifty dollars a foot. There’s supposed to be real gold in it.” She had wanted to touch it, and with Opal’s watchful eye absent, she did. It felt the same as modern wallpaper, and she found herself disappointed.
“Expecting something?” he whispered, and she jumped again.
She hadn’t realized how close he’d come. But once he’d spoken, she was surprised she hadn’t noticed. He stood so close that she heard the air moving smoothly in and out of his lungs. The rugged scent of his cologne wound around her, and she breathed deeply, savoring the spicy tang. She’d seen him, felt him, and touched him in her dreams, but he had never had a scent.
“Maybe we have met before, Ms. McCoy. Before last night, I mean.”
“Maybe. I . . . I don’t know.” Faith swallowed against the dryness in her suddenly parched throat.
“You do look familiar,” he whispered close to her ear.
She wasn’t about to let him know just how familiar. A hot flash slipped over her as the thought passed through her mind that this man—or his dream twin—had seen her without her clothes, had actually made love to her only hours earlier. She struggled with her sanity and moved away from him. Looking through the viewfinder of her camera, she effectively hid from him.
“Maybe in another life?” he said, and then laughed.
His words hit her hard. She nearly doubled over from the impact. Could that possibly be where her dreams came from? No, it couldn’t be. She looked up at him and his expression looked as startled as she felt.
To escape her own thoughts as much as his presence she turned abruptly and nearly fell over a chair. His warm hand curled around her arm to steady her. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He nodded and stepped away,
Relieved by the absence of his disturbing hand, she said, “I’m sure you’re curious about the upstairs.” She made her way up the steps toward the observation room. Perversely, she wanted to see his reaction. Needed to see it.
The scentl of polish and time sifted through the air. She took a deep breath and stepped up, instinctively reaching to move her skirts aside. Silly, she was wearing jeans. Where had that idea come from?
Even before she reached it, she knew the sixth step would creak. It made the expected noise, and she shivered. Reaching the landing, she stopped and looked back at him. Shadows shifted around her, and she curled her fingers around the wooden rail. For an instant, she thought she saw a beautiful woman standing in the foyer—a woman dressed in old-fashioned clothes. A big, black man appeared and nodded as he flashed a subservient smile.
Faith stumbled. Cord’s strong hand steadied her again, and the shadows vanished. She looked up and met his frown. The faint scent of an unfamiliar perfume hung in the air between them. She shook her head and closed her eyes, letting the momentary darkness soothe her frayed nerves. He hadn’t seen them, had he? He’d been looking at her, not down at the foyer.
“Careful,” he whispered when she opened her eyes and pulled away.
“I . . . I’m fine.”
“Could have fooled me.” This time he didn’t step away, and his breath fanned across her skin. “Tell me—who takes care of you?”
“No one. I’m not helpless.”
His laugh was soft and deep. “Is that why you run around barefoot in the middle of the night?”
So he had noticed.
He leaned closer, his body heat teasing her. “And let strange men give you large sums of money?”
She recalled the chips on the roulette table. Slowly his meaning soaked in. She narrowed her eyes at the inference.
“I told you I wasn’t there to gamble,” she whispered in denial.
“Ah, so you did.” He reached up and ran his finger down her heated cheek. “What do you think most men would expect for such a favor?”
Stunned she stood there, her blood boiling with anger and something else, which she chose to deny, ignited by that finger.
Her breath caught in her chest and then came out in a rush. She fought the longing this man inspired in her and moved past him. Somehow, she had to regain control of her mind and the situation.
“Oh, I don’t know . . . ” She backed away from him, her footsteps oddly loud on the carpet runner. “Perhaps this?”
She grabbed the wall hanging and shoved it aside. She lifted her chin and met his stare.
He gasped. Reaching out, he touched the
painted glass. A breath’s time later, he spun around and grabbed her. The fabric tumbled back into place.
His fingers bit into her arms as his words slashed through the air. “What the hell are you trying to pull?”
Four
CORD STARED INTO her wide, frightened eyes. He knew his fingers pinched her arms, but he couldn’t seem to let go. She was real. The room was real. What else was real?
“It’s familiar to you, isn’t it?” she whispered, breaking through the haze that cloaked his mind. Abruptly, he released her, and she nearly stumbled.
“Hell, yes. What else did Johnny tell you?” Cord’s voice rose.
“No . . . nothing. It’s a dream, isn’t it?”
“Of course it is. Johnny knew that. This is a sick joke.”
“I’m her, aren’t I?”
Her words startled him, even though they echoed the thoughts he’d had last night when he’d seen her in that window. “That’s crazy. It’s only a dream.”
“Yes. Only a dream.” Faith backed up and leaned against the wall. For an instant she closed her eyes, and then she opened them again to stare at him. “A dream where I stand on the other side of that glass in a blue dress—at least in the beginning.” Her eyes grew distant, as if she really could see the dream—his dream.
“And you stand here.” She pointed to an eerily familiar place on the carpet. “Smoking a cigar, drinking and watching.”
Cord’s gaze followed the pink blush up her cheeks, feeling his body warm with the memory of the dream. He stepped back before he reached out and touched her. Would she vanish if he did? A shiver slid up his spine.
He’d told Johnny about the dream but not in this much detail. “And what am I watching?” She closed her eyes again, and he whispered, “You, strip?”
Her eyelids flew open, and the shock in her eyes told him more than he wanted to know. Was it possible for two people to have the same dream? How?
“And you called me your wife.”
Silence was the only answer. The fear in her eyes reached out to him. What was she afraid of—him or the dream—or something else?
Before he came up with an answer, an elderly woman stepped from one of the rooms down the hall.
“Faith? Is that you?” The safe, friendly voice broke into the trance holding them captive.
It took several seconds for Faith to answer. “Yes, Opal. It’s me.”
“Hello.” Opal turned to face him and smiled.
“This is Cord Burke.” Faith’s voice wavered only a little.
“I own the Double Barrel.” He extended his hand wanting to find someone or something normal in this strange place. She took it and gently shook.
“Nice to meet you. Come see what I found.” Opal beckoned and turned into a room at the end of the hall.
Frowning, Faith followed. Cord fell into step behind her. His silence set her nerves on edge and his angry reaction fell right in line with the dream man’s reaction. She shivered, wanting to question him more and yet afraid of what he’d reveal.
Opal waved them into the room. Startled, Faith stepped back, bumping into Cord’s broad chest. In the corner sat the brass bed from last night’s dream. She’d been through this house yesterday, yet she didn’t remember seeing it. What was going on? Cord remained silent behind her.
“I know you snuck into the observation room yesterday,” Opal admonished, with only a trace of a smile in her voice. “The owner won’t be very happy, but I have to admit I’m kind of thankful. All these years, I’ve been curious about what was in there. Look what I found in the trunk.” With an intentional flourish, Opal unfurled an old, handmade quilt. “It’s the wedding ring pattern. And so wonderfully preserved.”
The bright colors on the white background mocked Faith’s very existence. It was the quilt in last night’s dream. As the fabric drifted through the air, a piece of paper flew upwards then landed at Faith’s feet. An old-fashioned photograph lay silently on the polished wood floor.
A little boy’s cherubic face stared up at her. His eyes held a strong hint of mischief. Faith felt herself falling into those eyes, seeing the trusting love of a child. She’d always enjoyed the magic of photography, but in all the years she’d been snapping pictures, she had never been able to capture such a strong sense of the subject.
She bent down and picked up the picture. The thick paper protected the fragile image, and she held the edges carefully. Turning it over, she saw the ornate feminine script. Timmy Cumberland, 1898. Age 4. The words formed an echo inside her head. She tried to turn back to Cord. Even his anger would provide a stabilizing presence. She couldn’t reach him. He seemed too far away.
Blackness surrounded her. From a long way off she heard a child’s cry. “Mama! Where are you, Mama?”
FAITH CRUMPLED like a wilted flower into a heap at Cord’s feet. Her camera thumped against the wooden floor as her bright hair fanned out across the toes of his boots.
“Faith?” He knelt down, nudging her shoulder. She didn’t respond. Gently, he slid his arms beneath her and lifted her off the floor. Something had frightened her—badly. Seeing that quilt, he understood. Something strange was going on here.
He carried her to the bed, uncaring that it was an antique, and lowered her to it. He felt as if he had stepped back into the dream. Had the quilt startled her? Had she possibly dreamed of it, too?
“What did she pick up?” he asked Opal.
The older woman lifted the photo from where it had fallen from Faith’s hand. “It’s a picture. Cute little guy.” Opal handed it to him.
He took it and seeing nothing unusual, turned it over. Timmy Cumberland. He’d spoken of a baby named Timmy in his dream last night, and in the recurring dream the woman who opened the door called him Mr. Cumberland.
Dread formed in his gut as realization showered over him. He stared at Faith, lying there on the bed. Her copper hair and pale complexion appealed to him, but what reached deep into his soul was her familiarity.
“Faith?” He gently shook her shoulder again. She lay silent and unmoving. Concern and confusion filled his mind. A distant image played in his thoughts, of her lying in this same bed her eyes closed in sleep. He’d wake her with a kiss. The image seemed so real. Leaning closer, he could almost feel her . . . taste her . . .
“Timmy.” The single, whispered word escaped from between her pale lips, and Cord straightened guiltily. Her eyes fluttered open, disoriented and filled with pain. Her skin remained pale, but her eyes grew more alert and wary. She turned those distraught eyes to him, and he felt that familiar tug—that trap he so easily fell into. She was a damsel in distress and his shining armor awaited.
No. He didn’t have time for this. He fought battles only for Cord Burke and the Double Barrel these days.
“Why don’t you get her a cool glass of water, dear?” Opal appeared at his side. “Just go through the door across the hall.”
Glad to escape, Cord strode from the room. The tiny bathroom felt claustrophobic. It smelled of thick perfume, as if the scent permeated the very walls. He filled a glass and then grabbed a washcloth. He heard laughter, and some of the tension rolled off his shoulders. She must be awake.
He picked up her camera from the floor and stepped into the room in time to hear Faith reassure Opal that she was fine and didn’t need a doctor. When he saw her, he wasn’t so sure about that.
Faith leaned back against the pillows, her eyes closed, her skin pale. Opal sat beside her on the bed, a frown creasing her brow.
“Thank you.” Opal took the cloth and pressed it against Faith’s brow. She barely opened her eyes.
“Did you dream about that quilt last night?” Cord leaned against the doorframe, trying to appear casual. What answer did he want to hear? He hadn’t a clue.
Faith opened her eyes. With a gentle tilt of
his head, he indicated for her to look down. She recoiled from the quilt and hastily pushed herself into a sitting position. She nodded vigorously. He stepped over to the side of the bed.
“And did I talk to you about naming a baby Timothy?” He carefully laid her camera on the bed.
“Y . . . yes. I don’t understand.” Fear and confusion shimmered in her eyes.
“Me, either.”
Faith swung her legs over the edge of the bed and took the cup from Opal’s hand. Apparently realizing Faith would be okay, Opal moved over to an antique rocker near the bed and sat down.
“We need your help.” Cord turned toward Opal. “I don’t know how to explain any of this, but I’ve had recurring dreams about this place.” He looked at Faith to see her reaction.
Faith nodded, avoiding his gaze. She sat the cup down on a nearby table. “Me, too. Since I was a teenager. I think that’s part of why I’ve always been interested in the Victorian era.”
Opal looked back and forth between them, confusion clouding her eyes and creasing her brow. “Do you dream about just this place?”
“No.” Faith stared down at the quilt, bunching it in her fists. She’d grabbed it in the same way in last night’s passionate dream . . .
Cord moved over to the window, away from her and the familiar longings she stirred in his blood. “Faith—or a woman who looks just like her—is in all of them.” His mind saw the long-watched images. The power of the dreams reached out to him.
“I see a man in mine. A man who looks just like Cord, except for a mustache.” Faith avoided his gaze, looking instead at Opal.
“It’s nice to know I wasn’t hallucinating.” Cord stared out the window. “I wasn’t too sure last night.” Thick, black clouds scudded across the sky.
A typical late afternoon rain would fall soon. The same gloom hovering in the sky settled over him. Thunder clapped in a promise of havoc to come. “We need information.” Cord turned his back to the window. “About this house. About the observation room. Anything would be of help.”
