by Janet Cooper
She quickly surveyed, which is her own home, held her dining room furniture. Instead of one large round table surrounded by upholstered high-back chairs, she saw half a dozen smaller tables and Windsor chairs. Directly in front of the open heart stood a long, trestle-style oak table; her server and china closet were also missing from the room.
Five ‘guests’ sat a various spots throughout the room; all of them dressed in colonial garb. She failed to see any women. The short, portly man, who had called her daughter, caught her attention, frowned, and then gestured her to come in.
Sarah hurried to the caged-in bar that fortunately had stayed the same.
"Thy head is uncovered!" the Quaker gentlemen rebuked her again.
His words came as a surprise to her for her own father hadn't noticed her clothes since she'd borrowed his tux jacket for a costume. The time before, she'd been sixteen and had used red dye on her hair. However, Sarah pulled the cap out of the waistband of her apron and plunked it on her head. A streak of stubbornness emerged, after all this was her dream, so she refused to tie the lappets under her chin. "Satisfied?"
He frowned at her again, but this time with confusion more than displeasure. "The men sitting at the corner need three ales," he said placing the pewter mugs on a tray.
For the next several hours, Sarah scurried from the bar to the tables delivering drinks and from the open-hearth fireplace to the tables serving food. Although the distance wasn't great, she never had a break. Her feet, back and arms ached from the unaccustomed chores. How can I be tired in a dream? Since I have to work tomorrow, it's time to wake up or at the very least to change this dream. She tried to reconstruct the illusion, but nothing happened. A twinge of panic tweaked her. She remembered her earlier concern about reality. Again she dismissed the notion and sought another reason. Perhaps, I'm trying to leave the fantasy too soon. I've read about dreams telling or helping your mind learn necessary things. Could this be why I can't escape or control what's happening? A customer calling for service caused Sarah to push aside her questioning--but the earlier uneasiness remained and deepened. Could this actually be occurring? No! Never!
Eventually, the last patron gathered his hat and prepared to leave. "Good night, Mistress Stone, Benjamin."
Sarah nodded her good-byes as Benjamin closed the door, then thought of the customer’s words--Stone. I have a different last name—but the same first—odd.
When the latch clicked, Sarah sighed with relief. She stretched her back. I wish the dream to end. Nothing changed. Her stomach twisted. She picked up a mug, held the pewter stein in her hand, and felt the weight of cup. Why wasn't it weightless? She hoisted a tray of dirty flagons and carried them toward the bar. Why did her whole body ache with every movement if this were a dream? Could she be sleeping in an awkward position?
Consciously Sarah contorted her body and strove to wake up. Failure to change anything caused a real sense of panic to overwhelm her. She fought for control. There must be a logical explanation for all of this. The only one that came to mind was that somehow she had slipped into another time zone. This answer increased her fears 100 percent. There had to be another reason. I just haven't found the explanation. But I will.
As she was searching for another rationale, a tall, olive skinned man entered the inn. He caught and held her interest. Her immediate and temporarily unsolvable problem, she put on hold. She hadn't been making much progress with new ideas, so she might as well enjoy what she saw standing at the doorway.
His long, black hair, shinning like the finest velvet, was tied back in a queue. The style emphasized his strong, chiseled features. His dark gaze pierced every detail of his surroundings without showing any reaction, and then, those midnight eyes inspected Sarah just as thoroughly as he had the tavern. After initial annoyance, she realized how unemotional his inspection was, much the way she examined a new place or a new idea. His analytically approach paid close acute attention to everything.
This man's aura spoke of danger, either that or she'd been reading too many thrillers. Her heart hammered harder. Who was he? Where had he come from? For the first time since this illusion began, she hoped that she had crossed over into another dimension so that she might learn more about this enigmatic man.
While she watched, he raised an eyebrow. She flushed as his black eyes ran over her body. This look reminded her of men in her world. The reflection stopped her. Was she accepting the time warp notion? Never.
When she glanced at him again, his stoic expression had returned, she blinked and wrinkled her brow. Had she misunderstood his previous look? Nothing about him gave her an answer. Uncertain, she straightened her apron and adjusted her cap, giving herself a moment to regain her composure.
Feeling like a frump after a long evening of work, she willed her dream to allow her to change. Instead of greeting this hunk looking like a wet cat left out all night, she struggled to create a new image. Even this small change failed.
A siren screamed in her head; one that would not shut off. Her mind bombarded her with facts. If she could not wake up and if she could not change anything in her dream, she must be living in a real world. If she were stuck in a time tunnel, she must escape. No matter how good looking the newcomer was, she had no time to spend thinking about him, she had a major problem to solve. She needed to return home, now.
Since the guest appeared intent on coming into the tavern and preventing her from discovering a way to go back, Sarah said, "We're closed."
The fringes of his buckskin hunting shirt swayed as he eased toward the bar and away from the door. Had he not heard her? She hardly believed that. Had he chosen to ignore her? When he passed near, the scent of wood smoke and fresh pine wafted in the air helping to mask the stale odor of the customers she had served earlier. She wiggled her nose remembering their unwashed bodies. Those other customers had not hindered her search for reality, but this man did for he attracted her. At this present moment, Sarah did not need any distractions even from a good-looking guy. She had a serious dilemma to solve, finding her way back to her own century. Sarah wanted everyone in the tavern gone so that she could work on her problem, alone. Once ridding the tavern of the good-looking stranger, she would find some way to dispose of the older Quaker gentleman.
In a louder voice, she repeated, "We are closed. The food is all gone. There's nothing…"
"Daughter, mind thy words." The tavern keeper laid a hand on her sleeve. His gentle face softened his scold and eased the prominent wrinkles she had seen earlier. "Surely, we can find a piece of bread and a plate of stew for our guest."
Since her most recent idea didn't look doable now, Sarah wondered if when she finally went back to sleep, after completing whatever chores she needed to do, this entire nightmare would end. Since she had come to this time zone through sleep, surely she could return the same way. Sarah decided to go with her new plan, because she admitted she had no other alternatives.
She glanced sideways at the dark stranger. He returned her stare. How could a man with eyes as cold and penetrating as his, attracted her? She normally dated men who enjoyed life and had few worries or cares. The newcomer definitely did not fit that description.
"Sarah?" the elderly gentleman called.
"Take a seat near the hearth," she said, directing the man with her hand.
The stranger nodded. His catlike movements reminded her of Puss the first time her pet had entered the tavern, wary. cautious. When the man reached the far side of the room, near the window, he turned. He slid the chair against the wall, before easing himself onto the seat. His action prompted her to think of a furtive figure in an adventure movie.
"I will need a bed for the night," he stated in a husky baritone voice.
Sarah re-examined the new arrival. His sharp high cheekbones and his firm, strong jaw suggested the male model on the cover on a romance novel, except his appearance was more striking than handsome. He represented her image of an Indian or a frontiersman. Never had she met anyone with su
ch a compelling, yet unreadable expression. Surprisingly, she liked not knowing what lay beneath or behind his facade. Besides, he added to the enigma of mysterious evening for this man emanated danger and dark secrets. Since her own life contained few adventures and fewer mysterious strangers, she relished the possibilities. Could this be why this all of this was happening? The reason appeared extremely weak, still she couldn't think of any other one.
"Thou art fortunate," the innkeeper said to the stranger. "With the recent battles, our only customers are the local farmers and tradesmen, so our third floor room is free. What may we give thee to quench thy thirst?"
"Cider." The tall man stretched his long, leather-clad legs toward the fire, yet his body seemed tense, ready to jump if necessary.
"Daughter, wilt thou serve our guest dinner?" The Quaker chided her for she had failed to move since the stranger had arrived.
As she walked to the hearth, her skirt nearly grazed the soles of his moccasins. Edging by, she willed him to look at her. If she couldn’t leave for a while, she might as well have a little fun flirting. Something she would never dare do in her real life.
His jet black eyes found hers. "Ever since I walked in, you have stared at me," he said. "Surely, you have seen an Indian before. Perhaps the only ones you saw were begging or drunk from the white man's liquor."
The harshness of his voice jolted Sarah. His words did not fit into her plan of bantering at all. Annoyed at his chastising her instead of giving a pleasant compliment or teasing her, she retorted, less than truthfully, "I did not stare…"
"You still are," he replied.
"You, thou looked at me," she rebutted. "Why should I not appraise thee?" Her feminist's ire invoked, she placed her hands on the table and glared at him boldly.
"Sarah!" the tavern owner admonished from behind the bar.
She straightened. Had she jumbled her thees and thous? Wasn't thee used either for a special person or in the objective case and thou for strangers? Then she realized her action and tone had caused the Quaker's rebuke, not the words that she had used.
"Answer my question." The stranger grabbed her forearm and drew her near.
His hand tightened its grip. The heat of his skin sent tingles racing throughout her body. A hint of pine and spring air filled her nostrils; one that she had noticed often in this room. The fragrance came from his man. Why had the aroma lingered into her century?
Her face was close enough that she smelled the mint on his breath. Their lips nearly touched. For a brief moment, she considered pressing her mouth against his. Then, she stared into his cold, obsidian eyes. His look reinforced her recent belief that she had tumbled into another age for only reality could be so fearsome.
She stared at his hand still firmly holding on to her and sought for words. "I…"
Benjamin set the cider mug on the table. "Pray, unhand my daughter. She means thee no harm."
Instantly, the Indian released her.
His action surprised her. Benjamin was no match for this man, yet the Indian had acquiesced at the Quaker's command. As Sarah moved toward the hearth, she wondered why. With her mind jumbled on too many unsolved questions, she absentmindedly scooped the thick soup from the wrought iron kettle. "Damn!" she exclaimed, dropping the ladle back into the pot and releasing her hold on the plate that clattered onto the stone hearth. She quickly wiped the hot stew off the back of her hand and onto the apron.
"Is thou hurt?" the innkeeper asked with concern, taking a step toward her.
"No," she said and began blowing on the burn. Not only could she see the red skin but her hand ached. The last hope of this evening being a dream vanished. Only reality could hurt this much.
The Indian moved to her side in a few effortless strides. He glanced at the scalded skin. "Put grease on that," he commanded. "I'll serve myself."
Ignoring his words, she dipped her hand in the bucket of water near the hearth before focusing a part of her attention on him. Another part of her mind attempted to sort out her problems. A thread of hope kept her from screaming her frustration. When tomorrow arrived after she finally had found her own bed and finally had fallen asleep, all would be right with her world she asserted.
He looked at her, and then shrugged. "Stubborn."
His single word confused her for she had been thinking of other things. Then she looked at the bucket. "Oh!" He had suggested she use grease. She had automatically chosen water. "This works too," she said and gave him a small smile.
Taking his dish to the table, he nodded, "Probably."
The atmosphere between them had changed, not lightened, just changed somehow.
Removing her hand from the pail, Sarah gently patted it dry. When she placed the bread, butter, flatware, and napkin on the trestle table, his finger lightly brushed the area around her burn. The small, rough tip scorched far worse than the hot liquid, but not with pain. Shivers of heat raced across her shoulders and down her spine. Boldly, she returned his stare. His strong, immobile face showed no emotion at her action, but she thought she noticed a twinkle in his eyes. Why did someone she had never met nor seen before tonight, claim and hold her.
"Thou are a stranger in these parts," the innkeeper said, obviously aware of the tension between Sarah and the Indian. "My name is Benjamin Stone, and this is my daughter Sarah."
The silence grew thick and hung like smothering smoke while she and the Quaker awaited his response. "I'm Luke Keenan," he finally said.
"Have thou traveled far?"
Again, a long hesitation followed the question, as though the man needed to decide what or how much information to reveal.
"My family has a plantation off Popcoson Road." Even when he spoke, his words sounded reluctant.
Sarah wondered why.
"Long Meadow?" Benjamin asked.
Luke nodded.
"I have heard of thy farm," the innkeeper said.
The Indian eyed him.
Pulling up a chair, Benjamin said, "Latch the door, daughter, and blow out the candles in the windows. We need no more guests tonight."
Why had Benjamin requested that she lock the door? Then, she remembered that Colonial law required inns to close within several hours after dark. She smiled. Happy to stop her work, she did as he bid.
"After you latch the door, please wipe the tables and finish washing the dishes." He sat facing their guest.
Sarah fisted her hands on her hips and stared at him. Enough was enough. Trying to be polite, she swallowed a strong comeback and asked mildly, "May I not join thee?"
"Daniel will return tomorrow and take over the cleaning-up chores. Thou must only do them for one night," he explained, without glancing at her.
Gritting her teeth, she took the water heating near the hearth and automatically reached for the jar on the shelf alongside the fireplace. As she did, her eyes chanced to catch Luke's. Did she detect merriment in his look? She stared closer, but either the expression had vanished or she had imagined it. Twice in one night? she wondered.
Her fingers encircled the handle of the unmarked jug. As she drew it down, she wondered, How do I know this is vinegar? When she smelled the contents, the strong odor struck her nostrils and immediately seared her sinuses. She measured a cupful into the pail of water and began washing the table, careful not to splash any of the vinegar-water onto her burn. As she scrubbed, she listened to the men talking in hushed tones.
She heard Benjamin say, "Thou owns the horse farm."
"My father does." Luke spooned jam on his cornbread.
"Since the fighting began, we have few travelers. Doeth thou have business in the area?"
"I sold a string of horses to the army," he responded in a sharp, clipped tone.
"Which army?"
"The British."
"British?" Sarah exclaimed. "Thou sold horses to the enemy?"
Both Benjamin and Luke stared at her.
She gave as well as she received.
"Daughter, no man is our enemy," he rebuked h
er.
"They paid in gold," the Indian said, as if that explained everything.
Unwilling to accept either man's rationalization, Sarah said, "The British oppress the people with taxes. They quarter their soldiers in civilian houses. We have no voice in their Parliament." She took a breath.
"'Render therefore unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's and unto God the things that are God's'," Benjamin admonished her. "During war times, Friends support neither side. Although we can no longer attend meeting, we will not violate those religious principles. Thou knowst that daughter."
"What about freedom? Independence?" she insisted.
"Your daughter must be reading Samuel Adams' ravings," Luke said.
"At least, I take a stand." Sarah vigorously scrubbed the tabletop.
"I wish both sides would destroy each other," the Indian said, his tone quiet, but intense.
Ignoring Luke, Benjamin glared at her. "Our family will not become involved in this war. When peace comes, we will follow the precepts of the Society of Friends and again participate in government. Until that time, we are neutral." His words and expression brooked no argument.
Sarah dug her nails into her fists with exasperation.
Turning to their guest, Benjamin asked, "Has thou not heard about the Continental Congress' Confiscation Law regarding trading with the home government?"
"Home government?" Sarah halted in her task, the question bubbling out of her mouth.
"Our legal government, the British." Benjamin gave her a curious look. Obviously, he expected her to know the term.
She held the rag in one motionless hand and listened.
"If I fail to sell our stock, the Americans will appropriate my horses and pay me with their worthless Continentals," the Indian said.
Sensing someone watching her, she began wiping the table before turning her attention to the two men. Benjamin appeared fully engrossed with their guest. Luke had angled his chair so that he could look at the innkeeper, yet kept Sarah in view.
"Be careful when thou departs tomorrow," the older man told Luke. "Since the Brandywine battle, the countryside has been filled with soldiers."
