Somewhere in Time (The Crosse Harbor Time Travel Trilogy) Page 6

  She sat next to him for a while as he drifted in and out of consciousness. It was well past noon. Her own clothes clung to her damply and her hair cascaded over her shoulders in a wild mane of wet curls and waves. Obviously no one had gone out looking for her. She had to do something. That broken arm wasn't going to set itself and she knew that even a simple fractured rib could lead to complications.

  There was only one thing she could do. She had to grab the small boat Sam Talmadge kept stashed behind the lighthouse and row back to the mainland for help.

  "I'll be as fast as I possibly can," she said to Zane, who looked up at her with glassy eyes. "You have to stay in bed. Please, whatever you do, don't get up."

  He nodded but she wasn't sure exactly how much he comprehended. He seemed to be in some kind of Twilight Zone . Seeing self-confident Zane Grey Rutledge so vulnerable unnerved her. She had visions of him tumbling down the stairs or something equally dreadful. If she had some rope she would even consider tying him in place but there was nothing handy.

  She made her way around to the back of the lighthouse. Funny thing, but she'd always thought there were beach roses on this side of the structure. Instead she found herself fighting her way through a veritable thicket of brush and untended shrubbery. She followed a stone path down toward the waterline where Sam kept his boat.

  Only that wasn't Sam's boat bobbing gently in the water. Sam's boat was a small but jaunty metal vessel with a hot pink heart painted along the starboard side and the name Janine emblazoned in throbbing DayGlo purple. The rowboat bobbing in the water was enormous and built of wood with oars of a size to match.

  Again that odd prickling sensation overtook Emilie but she swallowed hard against it. Boats like that one hadn't been seen around Crosse Landing for a very long time.

  It's for the Patriots Day celebration, she thought as she untied the boat then climbed into it. Sam Talmadge loved everything to do with holidays and he obviously was just making certain that all the Revolutionary War recreation details were right on the money.

  She hadn't rowed more than three feet before she found herself sorely regretting letting her membership at the health club lapse. The wooden oars were as heavy as they were huge and a few weeks of pumping iron would have been a welcome rehearsal for the enterprise.

  "Think positive," she admonished herself as she struggled to move the oars through the water with firm, even strokes. She'd already done the impossible twice today when she'd saved Zane from drowning, then dragged him upstairs and into the lighthouse. Certainly she could manage to row a measly boat across the harbor and get help.

  Lowering her head, she channeled all of her concentration into the job at hand. Under normal circumstances a person could row across the harbor in fifteen minutes.

  After a half-hour, even Emilie had to admit that she was getting nowhere fast. Her arms trembled from the effort and she was starting to feel lightheaded. At the rate she was going, she could row all day and all night and not see one of the usual landmarks.

  But that was ridiculous. Still there had to be some reason why she was having so much trouble getting her bearings.

  She stopped rowing and stared across at the shoreline she had known and loved all of her life. Where was Brower's Dockside Restaurant? The marina with the brightly colored flags waving overhead in the sea breeze? The fishermen who should have been plying their trade for hours by now?

  "Don't panic," she told herself. "There has to be a simple explanation."

  Maybe this wasn't Eagle Island after all and that wasn't Crosse Harbor.

  Maybe she and Zane had floated down toward Cape May or up toward Long Branch.

  Or maybe--

  Her breath caught in her throat as she wondered why it had taken her so long to see what was right there in front of her very eyes. The water was crystalline; the sky a blue so pure and deep that it reminded her of a Disney movie. The air had the sweet fresh smell of a mountain top. Where were the signs of modern life in the late20th century, the sludge and pollution and everpresent noise?

  Her entire body jerked with the shock of realization. It couldn't be. Things like that didn't happen in real life. Peggy Sue and Marty McFly might travel through time but real people were bound by the laws of nature, not the whims of some Hollywood scriptwriter.

  New strength filled her arms as she rowed back to the lighthouse, determined to unravel the mystery. She brought the rowboat into the dock then tied it to a post.

  The first thing she noticed when she reached the front door was the absence of a lock. In today's world? Not very likely. The hinges were new and free from rust. She burst into the front room and headed straight toward the window seat where she'd found the dogeared copy of Common Sense that she had chuckled over earlier.

  Her hands trembled as she opened to the first page. Printed in the year of Our Lord 1776. No copyright. No reprint information. No mention of Doubleday or Simon & Schuster or McGraw Hill.

  Exhilaration rocketed through her.

  It was a first edition.

  And it wasn't very old.

  Chapter Four

  This couldn't be happening. There was no rational explanation for any of it, but Emilie couldn't deny the evidence right there before her eyes.

  She'd seen enough reproductions in her day to know the difference and this copy of Common Sense was the real thing.

  She sank to the floor, her legs trembling too violently to support her weight.

  No wonder Crosse Harbor had looked so different. The signs of progress had been erased as if they'd never happened.

  At least, not yet.

  A wave of dizziness spiraled through her body and she lowered her head, breathing in the clean salt air. The Industrial Revolution was yet to be born. Clean air, clear water--everything the citizens of the late 20th century were struggling desperately to regain--were standard issue here.

  Why on earth hadn't she realized it sooner? She lifted her head then looked slowly around the cabin, trying to absorb the enormity of it all. No telephones. No electrical wiring anywhere to be seen. Amenities like indoor plumbing and refrigeration were still the stuff of dreams. She'd sensed something was different, but her eye had seen only what it was accustomed to seeing while her imagination had filled in the blanks.

  Any reasonable woman would be downright terrified to find herself catapulted back through the centuries. Fear of the unknown was one of the most basic human responses. Emilie, however, was galvanized with an almost supernatural energy that rocketed through her veins and flooded her mind with wonder.

  Could it be that Fate had had something planned for her, something more dangerous and exciting than even the adventure-loving Zane Rutledge had ever known?

  "Oh God," she murmured, glancing toward the man sleeping fitfully on the trundle bed by the window. He'd never believe it. No matter what evidence she paraded before him, he wasn't going to relinquish the world he knew.

  Not without a fight.

  Zane was a man comfortable in his own skin--and in his own time. The uncertainties and longings that had shadowed Emilie from the day she was born were alien to him. He took from life what he wanted and moved on when he'd had enough. How would he react when he found himself stripped of everything he knew and understood?

  There had to be a logical answer, some combination of elements that would explain what had happened. She thought about that shimmering sense of destiny she'd experienced the first moment she saw Zane striding up the driveway.

  How they had managed to end up back in the 18th century mattered less to her than why, and she knew he would never rest until he understood.

  "What the--?!" He opened his eyes and tried to prop himself on his right arm.

  She was at his side in an instant. "Easy. Lie back down, Zane. You broke your arm."

  He fell back on the bed, breathing heavily. "I'm seeing two of you," he managed. His normally ruddy complexion seemed dangerously pale and she remembered the bloodstains on the sand.

 
"There's only one of me," she said, struggling to keep her tone light and upbeat. He tried to sit up but she placed a hand against his chest. "Don't."

  "What happened?"

  "Looks like we didn't make it to Langley Park in one piece." Or in the same century, but she'd save that nugget of information for another time.

  "You...how are--?"

  "A few bumps and bruises, but I'm okay. I'm afraid you took the worst of it."

  "Good." Her heart turned over at that simple word.

  He's in bad shape. You've got to do something! The thought of setting his broken arm made her feel faint, but who else was there? She'd always prided herself on her knowledge of Crosse Harbor during this time period, but her mind was a blank. Until she gained her own bearings, she didn't dare risk searching for a doctor.

  "How are you feeling?" she asked, leaning over him.

  "Stupid," he said, wincing as he tried to shift position on the trundle bed. "Where are we?"

  "The lighthouse," she said, truthfully enough.

  "Where's the balloon?"

  "I don't know. I woke up on the beach. You were in the water." And the balloon and gondola had both vanished without a trace.

  "You saved my life?"

  "I did what needed to be done."

  "Remind me to thank you," he said, closing his eyes. "After I wake up...."

  "Don't thank me yet, Zane," she whispered as he drifted back into sleep. Once he discovered where they were, he might not feel particularly grateful.

  She'd made it through the first round of questions, but the second round was bound to be her undoing. Wait until he asked her to dial 911 or arrange for an x-ray or call his travel agent to change his flight to another day.

  First things first. Survival was the order of the day. They needed water and they needed food. And if she could find some clean bedding and a smooth piece of wood to use as a splint she'd consider herself a very lucky woman.

  She'd noticed a cellar door hidden beneath some wild strawberry vines when she was tying the rowboat to the dock after her aborted trip to the mainland. Hurrying outside, she elbowed her way past the thicket of vines and dune grass then breathed a sigh of relief.

  There it was! The door was painted a dusty greyishblue, weathered only slightly by the salt air and water, and she was struck anew with the knowledge that the lighthouse was in its prime, not dilapidated and forgotten as it iswas?now.

  The hinges also were free of rust and she easily threw open the heavy door and made her way down the stone steps into the cool darkness of the cellar where, if her knowledge of colonial ways was half as good as she'd always believed, there was a better than even chance she'd locate a cache of preserved foods.

  Ceramic pots of jams and preserved vegetables were lined neatly on wooden shelving, rough and unfinished, while a smoked ham hung from a hook suspended from the ceiling. It was far from an impressive display of goods but she couldn't have been happier if she'd been let loose in her local supermarket with a blank check.

  "I hope you don't have a blood pressure problem, Zane," she murmured as she made her selections. Without refrigeration, most people of the late 18th century relied upon salt as a preservative. It was bound to be a shock to their modern palates but beggars couldn't be choosers.

  "We'll learn to adapt," she said, wishing she had a basket to carry her bounty. "We can--" She gasped as the food went flying and she found herself pinned face first against the damp stone wall of the cellar.

  "State your business fast, lass," a man hissed as he held her against the wall, "or I'll slit your pretty throat from ear to ear." He was around her height but triple her strength and she wondered if she'd survived a lightning trip through the centuries only to meet her Maker in a musty root cellar.

  She considered her options, her situation, the incredible happenings of the past twenty-four hours, then she did exactly what a proper 18th century woman would have done in her position: she fainted dead away.

  #

  Andrew McVie was many things but a fool was not among them.

  Ofttimes the enemy appeared in a comely package, designed to cloud a man's vision and lead him astray from the road he was sworn to travel.

  These were dangerous times in which they lived. A wise man withheld his trust until a reason for that trust was offered.

  But when the beautiful lass with the flaming red hair swooned at his feet, caution took second place to gentlemanly concern and he dropped his blade to the ground and sprang to her aid.

  "Aye, you're a tall one," he said as he placed her on the stone bench near the door. Her shoulders were broad, her breasts rounded and full. She was a strapping woman, one a man could easily imagine warming his bed on a cold winter's night but he started in surprise as he realized she wore not the usual maidenly array of skirts, but a pair of black breeches much like his own.

  If he'd seen a donkey walk like a man, he would not have been more surprised.

  What manner of female was this? The cellar was bathed in shadows and he bent down to look more closely at her. No demure mobcap held back her fiery tresses; they cascaded freely about her face.

  His eye was drawn to the hand at her throat and to the king's ransom he found there. On the middle finger of her right hand she wore a heavy ring of braided silver and gold while at her neck, suspended from a fine golden chain, was a most amazing glass globe that seemed to have captured all the colors of the rainbow within its depths. His gaze moved from the rise and fall of her breasts to the amazing display of wealth she carried on her person. He was uncertain which intrigued him more. He frowned as he followed the line of her limbs with his gaze. The black breeches were an affront to her womanliness. Surely she could afford to garb herself in clothing more pleasing to the eye.

  He wondered if the lass might be part of the spy ring but the notion was so absurd he laughed aloud. Who would believe such nonsense? No, she was probably the wife of one of the local fishermen, who had rowed across the inlet looking to steal a few potatoes for her children's supper. Times were difficult and the good woman could not be held accountable for doing what was necessary to keep their bellies filled.

  And yet, this woman looked as if she'd ne'er known hard times.

  He remembered the early days of his marriage to Elspeth when he was struggling with his commitments to family and to his law practice in Boston and how, time after time, Elspeth and their son had suffered for his ambition. He had wanted so many things for them: a fine house and servants so Elspeth could sit by the leaded glass windows and dream away the hours, a farm filled with produce instead of problems, a library stacked with the books necessary for the classical education he was determined his only son would enjoy.

  Cinders now, all of it. Gone in the instant it took an ember from the hearth to ignite the blaze that had destroyed everything Andrew held dear while he pursued the almighty shilling.

  Strange that the sight of this strapping woman should call to mind memories of his wife. Elspeth had been as delicate as a budding rose, but that fragile beauty had hidden a strength he had come to rely upon.

  Mayhap too much, for Elspeth's strength had freed him to pursue the fleeting pleasures of life that had seemed so important at the time. That beautiful little boy they had created on a warm summer night had been more important than the accumulation of wealth. If only he had come to that realization while there was still time....

  Today there was only the Rebellion to give reason to his hours upon this earth and he intended to offer up his heart and spirit in the pursuit of independency, even if ultimately the cause was doomed to failure.

  His last foray into Englishheld land on Manhattan Island had been for naught. He had come away with little but a sense of despair that grew stronger with each day that passed.

  He had returned to the lighthouse, unlighted since the advent of war, hoping to find Josiah Blakelee awaiting him but only silence had greeted his return. Blakelee, who owned a farm near Princeton, believed strongly in the cause of libert
y and had offered his services in the pursuit of those blessings that flowed from independence.

  Blakelee was one of those rare men whose demeanor and affability made him instantly welcome wherever he went. He also was possessed of a redoubtable courage that took him many times into danger--perhaps for the last time some two months ago when he vanished north of Manhattan Island.

  Andrew had intended to inflict upon Blakelee a sermon whose purpose was to impress upon the man the fleeting happiness to be found with family. Blakelee's disappearance tore at Andrew's soul for it seemed to point out the ultimate hopeless nature of the struggle.

  Family was all. Without it even independence from the Crown meant little.

  But Josiah Blakelee burned with the fires of liberty. For the past few months he had liberally quoted from Thomas Paine's Common Sense, and he understood what Sam Adams said better than Sam Adams did himself.

  Last year, not long after Concord and Lexington, Andrew and Josiah had dined at Braintree with Samuel's irascible cousin John and John's wife Abigail and John Adams had given a vigorous discourse on the necessity to separate the colonies from the Mother Country.

  Josiah had fair to boiled with the righteousness of the cause. There had been a time when Andrew too had known the same passionate commitment as shared by these two fine men but that night he had only sat and listened, his mind on a time and place lost to him forever.

  Mrs. Adams, a small and handsome woman whose powers of intellect were a match for those of her husband, seemed to sense that Andrew gave but lip service to the cause.

  "There is a comfort to be found in a commitment to a cause," she'd said to Andrew over a pot of chicory-laced coffee. She and her husband had lost a child in infancy and they took much solace in diverting their sorrows into pursuing a greater good.

  And so it was that Andrew had joined forces with those who cared deeply about the pursuit of liberty.