Somewhere in Time (The Crosse Harbor Time Travel Trilogy)

by Barbara Bretton

  "I am no physician," said Andrew, "but I am skilled in certain basic remedies."

  "I don't have a choice, do I?" asked Zane.

  No one argued with him.

  In silence they filed down the winding staircase to the front room where the blue light of dusk had begun to soften the stark simplicity of their surroundings.

  Emilie borrowed McVie's knife and proceeded to rip into one of the beautiful quilts. They would need lengths of fabric to serve as a sling, as well as to bind the makeshift splint to Zane's forearm.

  Andrew found a sturdy branch outside which he quickly broke down to a more manageable size.

  Zane watched the proceedings with detached curiosity. The whole thing was beginning to take on an almost Kafka-esque quality and he half expected the alarm to ring and wake him up from the strangest dream he'd had in his entire life.

  The two men locked eyes.

  "The pain might be considerable," said Andrew, taking the other man's measure.

  "Do it," was all Zane said.

  McVie motioned for Emilie to stand at the head of the trundle bed. "Keep his shoulders down, Mistress Emilie."

  She nodded, biting her lip nervously. McVie placed one hand on Zane's wrist and another at his elbow. It was she and not Zane who cried out at the sound of bone against bone as McVie urged the broken pieces into the proper position.

  Quickly he laid the splint along Zane's forearm, then instructed Emilie to bind the splint tightly in place. Zane's face was pale and his eyes were closed. A small muscle in his jaw worked furiously but that was the only sign he gave that all was not right.

  "You're very good at this," she observed as McVie finished his task.

  McVie nodded. "I have always been so."

  They listened to the sound of Zane's rapid breathing as he dozed on the trundle bed.

  "I know I should be worrying about all sorts of dreadful things," said Emilie, "but right now all I can think about is food."

  Andrew started for the door. "Come with me and I'll cut some ham for you and Rutledge."

  He wasn't entirely certain what he was going to do with the two travelers through time, but he did know he wasn't about to let them out of his sight.

  Chapter Six

  The ham was salty and tasted of wood smoke and the rum was potent, but Emilie polished off a portion of each with gusto. Zane awoke once in considerable pain and McVie pushed the bottle toward him. Zane didn't hesitate and soon slept peacefully once again.

  "The pain will ease by the morrow," said McVie, from his spot near the door.

  "I hope so," said Emilie, smoothing Zane's dark hair off his forehead with a gentle touch. McVie had helped her to dress the cuts on Zane's forehead and back, and together they had used the rest of the quilt to bind his ribcage. She had thanked God that his ribs had been bruised and not broken. "I appreciate all you're doing for us, Andrew. I know this must seem more unbelievable to you than it does to us."

  He tossed the quarter she'd given him into the air then caught it in his palm. "You have shown me some things that not even logic can disprove."

  It was hard to see his expression clearly in the gathering darkness but Emilie thought she caught a look of concern in his eyes.

  "Is something wrong? Is there something about Zane's condition that I should know about?"

  So that was the way the wind blew, thought Andrew. Her concern for Rutledge went deeper than perhaps even she realized.

  "Nay, madam, I have kept nothing about Rutledge's infirmities from you. It is another, more distressing, matter that concerns me."

  She nodded as if she knew. "You have to leave us," she said, in that oddly-accented voice of hers. "I understand."

  Andrew arched a brow in question. "That notion does not cause you alarm?"

  "It doesn't thrill me," said Emilie, "but I know that you have a life of your own." And a destiny to be met. "I believe I can make a life for myself here."

  Andrew gestured toward Rutledge, sleeping deeply on the trundle bed, his broken arm propped upon a pillow at his side.

  "What of Rutledge?" he asked. "He does not strike me as a man willing to forego the world he left behind."

  "Has he a choice? We're alive and we're here. The sooner we make our peace with that truth, the happier we will be."

  Andrew considered his words carefully. "And what of you, madam? Do you not feel the pull of friends and loved ones left behind?"

  "There's no one," she said. "Not a soul."

  He wondered about the bond between her and Rutledge but he refrained from asking. She obviously had affection for the giant of a man but how deep that affection ran was beyond his knowing.

  As for Rutledge, he had about him the look of a man who had laid claim to a woman. A vivid image, shockingly explicit in its attention to detail, came to life and he closed his eyes against it. The Mistress Emilie had said she and Rutledge were unwed but Andrew was worldly enough to know that meant little when the blood ran hot.

  He cast a curious glance toward her as she sat by Rutledge's side. She sat stitching the plain blue fabric from the coverlet into a skirt. She had an air of industry about her and he wondered if there was any goal she could not attain if she put her mind to it. She was a woman of bountiful charms, not the least of which was a most intriguing demeanor that was at once both fierce and agreeable.

  He cleared his throat. "About your manner of dress," he began. "It appears to my eyes to be most...unusual attire."

  For a moment she forgot what she'd been wearing when this whole thing began and she looked down to find herself clad in a demure 18th century bodice and 20th century leggings. She quickly explained to him about the celebration and the outfit she'd intended to finish sewing while on the balloon ride to Langley Park.

  Andrew gestured toward the apparel on her lower body. "Do others garb themselves in such fashion?"

  "And worse!" she said, laughing at the expression on his face. "You would be scandalized if you could see the outfits, Andrew." She held aloft a cambric handkerchief she'd had tucked in her embroidered purse. "There are some women who wear as little as this."

  Andrew's face flamed and he rose to his feet. "It grows dark," he announced unnecessarily. "You should sleep."

  "I doubt if I'll ever sleep again," she said. "There's so much to do...so many things to think about--"

  "I bid you good night, Mistress Emilie. Rest well."

  "And you," she said.

  With that he climbed the stairs to the lookout tower while Emilie laughed softly to herself, wondering how he would react when she told him about Playboy.

  #

  Zane awoke the next morning with the sun. His arm ached, as did his ribs, but all things considered he felt remarkably clear-headed and filled with resolve.

  He climbed from the trundle bed, careful not to disturb Emilie who slept on the smaller of the two mattresses. During the night he had come to terms with the reality of their situation. Although it went against all logic, he accepted the fact that he and Emilie had somehow tumbled through a rip in the fabric of time.

  However, he was not about to accept the fact that the world he'd left behind was lost to him forever. If he did that he'd be saying that his entire life up until now hadn't been worth a damn and that admission was too close to the bone for him to contemplate.

  Besides, this world held little appeal. He liked everything modern life had to offer and was willing to accept the drawbacks as well as the benefits. Where was the challenge, living within boundaries that had been set by history long before he was born?

  But there was one challenge on the horizon and it was probably the most important one he'd ever face.

  He was going to find a way back to his own time.

  And he was going to convince Emilie to come with him.

  #

  For years Emilie had prided herself on her love of the Colonial era, but when she awoke that morning she realized how little she'd really known about the time. She could live without her elect
ric sewing machine and her microwave oven, but indoor plumbing was another story entirely.

  What on earth was she going to do?

  Peering out the window she saw McVie and Zane engaged in animated conversation near the well. They looked as if they would be there for some time. Now if only she could find a chamber pot, maybe she could convince herself that the situation wasn't as dire as it was beginning to seem.

  She scowled as she searched the lighthouse for the object. Did men have any idea how lucky they were? She doubted it. As a sex, they seemed to take for granted the ease with which they could perform necessary bodily functions. The thought of squatting down behind some prickly rosebush filled her with dismay, but the other alternative was even more appalling to consider.

  Flinging open the front door, she stormed down the steps. "If either one of you comes anywhere near the rosebushes in the back, I will single-handedly see to it that neither of you reaches his next birthday."

  With that she marched around the corner of the lighthouse and disappeared from view.

  #

  "Is she always thus?" McVie asked after Emilie had vanished from sight.

  "She has a temper," said Zane. "No doubt about that."

  McVie nodded. "She has the look of the Irish about her."

  Zane knew McVie wanted to ask about the exact nature of his relationship to Emilie but the shorter man's 18th century caution kept him silent.

  They had spent an interesting hour discussing the options open to both him and Emilie and it was agreed that throwing in their lot with McVie--at least for the time being--was the wisest course of action.

  Besides, there was the issue of McVie's obvious distrust. Emilie's eyes had shone bright with admiration each time she talked with McVie and Zane had found his gut twisting with a jolt of white-hot jealousy, the likes of which he'd never experienced.

  Only this time the jealousy wasn't directed toward a name in a dusty old history book but a living, breathing man. Emilie's lifelong hero was more competition than he'd counted on.

  She saw McVie as a hero, the kind of man who would risk everything for the higher good. Funny thing, though: Zane had the distinct feeling that he and McVie had more in common than anyone, including Emilie, would think.

  McVie was a risk-taker, but it wasn't the higher good that concerned the man. McVie was running away from something, sure as hell, and Zane intended to find out what it was.

  He looked at McVie. "So what's next?"

  "We leave when Mistress Emilie returns," said McVie. "If luck is with us, we'll be at the edge of Milltown before night falls again."

  #

  The first thing Zane noticed on the mainland was the absence of sound. Back when he was in high school he'd read Atlas Shrugged. The mysterious John Galt had managed to stop the engine of the world and Zane finally understood what that was all about. It was gone, all of it. No planes, no cars, no computers, no machines, no constant low-level sizzle of electricity keeping the world on-line.

  McVie tied the rowboat to a tree stump a few feet away from the waterline then plunged into a thicket of branches and bushes with Emilie and Zane bringing up the rear.

  "Milltown lies to the northwest," said McVie. "We'll make camp on the outskirts of town for tonight."

  "We can't stay in the town itself?" asked Emilie. She had been thinking of a wonderful colonial inn, rich in atmosphere.

  "Not Milltown," said McVie, glancing over his shoulder. "'Tis said the Britishers have made considerable inroads and with your unusual attire we should draw too much untoward attention."

  There was no arguing with his reasoning. McVie planned to make contact with his cohorts in the spy ring and obtain proper clothing for both Emilie and Zane before daybreak so they would blend in with the populace once they reached Princeton.

  "How do we know you're not going to turn us into the police?" Zane asked.

  "You do not," said McVie. "As I do not know with certainty if you intend to thwart my plans."

  "You have our word," said Emilie.

  "As you have mine," said McVie, "and I do not believe that is enough for any one of us."

  #

  They walked in silence for what seemed like hours. Emilie had feared McVie would plot a course through the swamplands that dotted the boundaries of modern-day Crosse Harbor, but he led them instead into a forest of maples and pine trees that towered so high overhead that she felt as if she'd entered a cathedral. Outside the forest, the summer sun was blisteringly hot, but inside it was dark and cool. The forest floor was softly cushioned by fallen pine needles and dropped leaves and she found herself struck by the toll industrialization would soon take on the natural order of things.

  They stopped by a stream to rest for a few minutes. McVie knelt down on the bank and leaned forward, cupping his hands to fill them with water.

  "Don't do that!" Emilie said. "The water's probably--" She stopped, glancing down at the crystal-clear reflections in the glassy surface.

  "The water's clean," said Zane, sounding as amazed as she felt.

  McVie looked at them both with curiosity. "You act as if clean water is an oddity."

  "It is in our time," said Emilie. She told him about medical waste and acid rain, and the absurdity of designer bars where people paid good money for a cup of clean water.

  McVie looked at Zane. "Why is it you wish to return to such a place?"

  "Freedom," said Zane. "We can go anywhere we want, do anything we want. Hell, we've even been to the moon."

  McVie turned toward Emilie. "He speaks nonsense."

  "He speaks the truth," said Emilie, sipping the cool fresh water. "The American flag flies on the surface of the moon."

  McVie sat down on a mossy rock and looked up at the sky. "And how did the American flag reach the moon, Mistress Emilie? A high-flying bird, perhaps, or an act of God?"

  She shook her head. "Hard work, brain power, and a dream."

  Zane, however, understood what McVie was really asking. In broad terms, he described the principles behind jet propulsion and outlined the development of the space program.

  "I was a little girl when the Eagle landed, but I remember it as if it were yesterday. 'One small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind.'"

  "Neil Armstrong," said Zane. "For a while he was every boy's hero."

  It sounded like a world of wondrous possibilities. Andrew's head swam with the notion of mortal men hurtling through the sky in a ball of flame, only to set foot upon the silvery surface of the moon. "And how is it you go about your daily business? In those...rockets you tell of?"

  "All different ways," said Emilie, perching on a rock near him. "Some people walk to work, but most people drive."

  "Horses?"

  "Cars," said Zane.

  McVie listened, eyes widening with surprise, as Rutledge described metal vehicles with rubber wheels that were powered by controlled gas explosions. "I believe you are making sport at my expense."

  Emilie shook her head. "He tells the truth, Andrew. The country is paved with roads and you can drive anywhere you want, any time you want." She reached into her waistband for her embroidered purse then removed a hard and shiny piece of paper. "This is a driver's license," she said, handing it to him. "You take a test to prove your skill, then the state grants you the right to drive a car."

  "What manner of substance is this?" McVie asked, tapping the license with his thumbnail.

  "Plastic," said Zane with a grin. "It's everywhere."

  McVie looked closely at the card. "'Tis your image, Mistress Emilie. The artist was quite proficient."

  "There was no artist," Emilie said. "That's what we call a photograph."

  Zane started to explain the principles of photography, but McVie stood up abruptly. "Time passes. We must continue."

  "So much for your lectures, Professor Rutledge," Emilie commented with a laugh.

  "He kept your driver's license," Zane said as they fell into position behind McVie once again.

  "
I don't think I'll be needing it. Besides, if it helps him to believe us, he's welcome to it."

  "We're going back one day," Zane said with great determination.

  "I don't think so."

  "We don't belong here."

  "Speak for yourself."

  "Come on, Emilie. I saw your face when you headed for the bushes this morning. You wanted porcelain, tile, and running water."

  "Too bad for me. I'll get used to it."

  "Wait until December," he said. "You'll be praying for indoor plumbing."

  "And so what if I do? That still doesn't change things. We're here and we're staying here."

  "Not if I can help it."

  "I don't think you can, Zane."

  "It happened once," he said. "It can happen a second time."

  "If you're planning to hijack another hot-air balloon, you'll have another seven years to wait until the first manned flight."

  "We can build our own."

  "Why don't we build a spaceship while we're at it and go to Mars."

  "If it would get us out of here, I would."

  He strode ahead, ostensibly to talk to McVie. Emilie bridled at his stubborn refusal to accept the fact that their lives had been changed irrevocably. He couldn't control this situation any more than he'd been able to control the hot-air balloon. Old rules no longer applied and the sooner he accepted that, the easier things would be for everyone.

  #

  "This is it?" asked Emilie two hours later when Andrew stopped for the night near an outcropping of rocks that overlooked a stream. "We're staying here?"

  "There is a small cave beyond the lilac bushes where you may take shelter for the night."

  "A cave?" Somehow her imagination hadn't taken her this far. "Bats sleep in caves."

  It was Zane's turn to laugh. "You were expecting Holiday Inn?"

  "Oh, be quiet!" she snapped. "I'm only thinking of you."

  Even McVie recognized the humor in that statement and he barely knew her.