A Tumble Through Time (11 page)

Anna’s story would certainly answer a lot of questions. The clothes, her speech, her ideas about women. With the way she’d shot Big Ben in the back and brought down the cowboy, the future must be a very scary place. Didn’t men protect their women anymore? He rubbed his forehead, the pain shooting through him a stark reminder of his own problems.

“Here’s your soup, nice and hot.”

“Put it down, and come here for a minute.” Wes reached his hand out, attempting an encouraging smile, but Anna looked as if she would bolt any minute.

“You need to eat, and I have to change your sheets, and . . .”

Despite his discomfort, he shifted to his side, and crooked his finger.

She blew out a deep breath. “You think I’m crazy, huh?”

“Sit down, Anna. I’m having a hard enough time focusing, without having to bend my very sore neck to look up at you.”

“Sorry.” She placed the bowl on the table and sat in the chair.

“I’m half Irish and half Potawatomi.”

She tilted her head and frowned. “So, that means . . .”

The dizziness was getting to him, so he’d better get this over with fast. What he wanted more than anything was to sleep. Today wasn’t the best day for dealing with confessions.

“It means I was raised believing that strange, unexplained things happen. Whether this is true or not doesn’t matter because you believe it, and despite what I said, I don’t think you’re crazy.”

The long speech depleted whatever stores of energy he had left. “Now please leave me to die in peace.” He shifted to his back and closed his eyes.

Anna laid a cool palm on his forehead. “You’re burning up again.”

“Hmm.” He heard her from a great distance as sleep called to him.

Anna took in his features as they relaxed into slumber. Her heart clutched while she smoothed the curls back from his forehead. Now that he’d told her of his heritage, she easily saw both the Native American strength of his face, and the curly hair of his Irish father. His long, thick eyelashes lay against his lightly tanned skin. His parents had made a handsome son.

His quick acceptance of the wild tale she’d told him still rocked her. When she’d first figured it out, she’d
keeled over like a swooning Victorian heroine. Wes took it in stride as if he ran into time travelers on a regular basis.

Of course, his rising fever could have made him believe he was hallucinating. Once he awoke from a nice long nap, he’d probably send for Doc Oliver to see that she was locked away in some nineteenth-century loony bin.

If only she had some modern medicine, she could help him. Oh, but for a drug store with shelves of cold and flu remedies. But perhaps she could relieve him by cooling his body down.

After scouring the kitchen, she came up with a large pan and several clean cloths. Her neglected arm muscles got a workout pumping water into the pan that she carefully carried down the hallway to Wes’s bedroom.

The sheets were twisted around his legs and he thrashed on the bed. She set the water down and studied him for a minute. She really should take off his clothes and wipe him down. Her nerves fluttered at the thought. In her time a woman stripping a man down to cool his fever wouldn’t be a major problem, but in 1870, she’d be scorned as a harlot, only fit to work for Miss Ethel, should anyone find out.

She shrugged. Who would know? He’d sent everyone home; it was just the two of them. He was in a deep sleep. Gingerly, she unfastened his shirt buttons, slowly revealing his broad chest lightly sprinkled with dark hair. The amount of hair increased as her nimble fingers neared his navel, eventually forming an arrow pointing straight to his
groin.

Anna sucked in a breath and blew it out through clenched teeth. This man didn’t spend time at a gym; his lifestyle kept him in shape. Unable to resist, she stroked the soft hairs on his chest, peeking at his face to assure herself he wasn’t watching her with that grin he loved to flash.

Unfolding the cloth, she dipped it in the cool water and spread it over his chest. He flinched and mumbled something she couldn’t understand. His muscles rippled under her palm, causing her mouth to dry up as effectively as a wad of cotton. Although she tried to keep her touches and glances professional, the sight of his six pack abdomen had her panting like some fool dog waiting for a treat. Several small scars on his chest appeared to be knife wounds, but nothing that would have been life threatening.

Another dip, and she wiped his chest and neck. The heat from his body warmed the cloth immediately. What she wouldn’t give for some aspirin. Amazing how something so ordinary in her time was so far out of reach here.

She dropped the cloth in the pan and after pulling the sheet up, returned to the kitchen for fresh water. An old-fashioned coffee pot sitting on the black iron stove caught her eye. A quick glimpse inside showed remnants of Wes’s morning coffee, so she slid the pot over to the back burner where a small fire still burned. While she waited for the coffee to warm, she crossed her arms and leaned her hips against the wooden counter. Having taken all her meals at the café since she’d arrived, this was her first chance to really study an 1870s kitchen. Amazingly enough, it appeared quite comfortable.

The stove took up almost an entire wall, which led her to believe it was used as a way to heat the house as well as cook. The room itself was small by modern day standards. But packed into its tiny space were shelves, counters, and a good-sized table and chairs. An alcove off the room had an array of burlap bags filled with coffee beans, flour, sugar, dried beans, and oats. Mason jars of fruit
s and vegetables, probably gifts from the women of the town, lined one whole shelf. It appeared the marshal ate well.

Pushing aside her musing, she grabbed a chipped blue china cup from one of the shelves and sloshed the dark liquid in. A quick search turned up a bowl of sugar cubes and a small tin of milk.

Balancing the pan and her coffee, she returned to the bedroom. Wes hadn’t moved, but his face was still flushed from fever. She took a quick sip from her cup and winced. Lord, these people didn’t know how to make decent coffee.

She laid her palm against Wes’s forehead. It appeared his fever was even higher. Whipping the sheet off, she tossed it on the floor and again wiped him down. After fifteen minutes of bending over his bed, she placed her hands on her lower back and stretched the sore muscles.

If this was going to be effective, she had to strip him completely, and do his whole body. Before she could talk herself out of it, she eased his shirt off his shoulders, and down his arms. By tugging both sides, she managed to get it to his waist, where she yanked it out from under him.

Taking a deep breath,
Anna unfastened his pants and pulled the soft wool down, revealing his powerful body, inch by glorious inch.

Oh my.

Her eyes fixed on the bulge snug inside his drawers. The length was indeed manly−even at rest. She continued her perusal to the fine dark hairs covering his strong legs, the muscles well-developed from years of straddling a horse. She wiped her forehead with the cloth in her hand, but it did nothing to cool her body. Or slow her heart rate.

Stop it. The man is sick with the flu and a raging fever and you’re ogling his body like some brainless buckle bunny.

She grabbed the cloth and dipped it in the water, feeling a bit ashamed of herself. How would she like it if the tables were turned, and he’d stripped her down to her bikini panties and lacy bra?

Oh God, I shouldn’t have thought of that, either. I’m so bad.

Her hands finally stopped shaking long enough to run the cloth over his entire body. She placed the pan on the floor and then promptly stepped on it, spilling water on the crumpled up sheet she’d tossed there earlier.

Shaking water off her boot, she examined the
wardrobe, which did hold more sheets. At least she could cover him with a clean one, and after he awoke, she’d insist he get out of bed so she could change the one covered with his sweat. She tossed the wet sheet on the chair by the door, and scooping up the pan, headed to the kitchen.

“Hello,
marshal?”

Anna nearly jumped five feet when a loud voice sounded from the
front doorway. A man with a cleric collar stood in front of her, two older women holding covered dishes behind him. All three smiles faded as they took in her appearance. Anna glanced down at herself. The top of her dress was soaked and plastered to her body. Either cold or terror had made her nipples stand at attention, poking through the material like two bullets. Her hair was falling down around her shoulders, and without a doubt the flush she could feel creeping up her face completed the wanton look.

She groaned under her breath. Then a jolt of panic hit her as she remembered the very nearly naked Wes in the next room. Her eyes widened as the small group moved forward, heading toward the bedroom. Moving faster than she’d ever done in her life, she slid in front of the man and smiled. “Can I help you?”

“Who are you?” One of the women, with a stout body, iron gray curls, and pursed lips, glared down her nose and sniffed.

“I’m Anna Devlin.” When no one spoke, she continued, “I’m a friend of the marshal.”

“Indeed,” the scrawny, pointed-chin woman flanking the preacher’s other side spoke.

“Yes. And I’m here to help.”

“I’ve never seen you in church.”

Oh, God. She was in trouble now. She attempted a smile. “Well, I haven’t been here very long, you know, still settling in.”

“The Lord doesn’t care if you’re settled or not.” The preacher peered at her over the top of his spectacles. “In any event, we’re here to offer comfort to the marshal.”

Water sloshed from the pan as she shifted it to put her
arm out to stop him. “He’s feeling poorly. Still has a fever, and . . . asleep. Yes, he’s asleep. So if you would like to leave whatever it is you brought,” she gestured toward the offerings the ladies held, “I’ll be sure to see he gets it.”

I’m babbling like an idiot.

The reverend turned to the two women. “You wait here, and I’ll just take a quick look at him. I’m not sure it’s a good idea for you ladies to enter a bachelor bedroom.” He narrowed his condemning eyes at Anna, and started down the hall.

She scooted around the ladies and raced after the man. “I really don’t think you should disturb him.” She tugged his jacket sleeve, but he continued on.

“Nonsense, young lady, I’m just going to say a prayer over him.”

“I prayed already. Lots of times.
” She wrung her hands, her voice shrill and panicky. “Especially now.”

He rolled his eyes, then turned and entered the bedroom. Anna covered her face with her hands, peeking through her fingers like a small child at the scary part of a movie.

Then she moaned aloud as the preacher backed out, his jaw slack and face as white as the sheet she wished she had thrown over Wes.

Chapter Eleven

R
everend David Preston closed his worn prayer book and flashed a grim smile of satisfaction. “You may kiss the bride.”

Swallowing, Wes turned toward Anna. Still not recovered completely from influenza, he wasn’t sure if it was remnants from his illness or abject horror at being married, but he fought to keep his scant breakfast from rising to the occasion and decorating his new wife.

Wife!

A week ago he had awakened from a fever-induced sleep to shouts and screams. Panic had seized him as he jolted awake and pitched forward, his pounding head taking a while to join him. The preacher stood in Wes’s bedroom, waving his Bible and spewing verses from the Good Book that surely the entire neighborhood had been privy to.

Still groggy from illness and sleep, it had taken him a moment to realize he was mostly naked, that Anna stood behind the preacher wringing her hands, and two women from the church had added to the cacophony with their shrieks.

He’d cupped his palms, quite ineffectively, over his lower parts and shouted, “Will someone please hand me a sheet?”

Luckily Anna seemed to be the only one not paralyzed by shock. She grabbed the sheet from the chair by the door and tossed it at him, smacking him square in the face with the soggy cloth. A deep blush crawled up her neck, but he’d sworn she was biting her lip to keep from laughing.

“Everybody out!” The power he’d hoped to put into that demand was lost in the squeaking of his voice, now barely rising above a whisper.

The preacher turned to the church women. “Ladies, please remove yourselves from this disgraceful scene and await me in the parlor.” He pointed a stiff finger at Anna. “You, too. I intend to have a word with the marshal.” When she didn’t move, he stressed, “Alone.”

The women trooped out, the two older ladies casting hateful glances at Anna, who still looked as if she would burst out laughing any minute. He’d still been trying to figure out what the hell had just happened. The last thing he’d remembered was Anna telling him some story about being from the future, and in his fevered haze, he’d agreed it was possible.

But he was sure he hadn’t been missing his clothes when they’d had that conversation.

“Marshal, I must say I expected better from you.” Pastor David had drawn up a chair and settled in for what appeared to be a lengthy scolding.

If only his head hadn’t hurt so much. And his chest. And his muscles. And, dammit, even the soles of his feet. Wes eased his body back down on the bed, determined to at least be comfortable while the preacher sermonized.

“I know you’re suffering from an illness right now, but that woman,” he flapped his arm toward the bedroom doorway, “has seen you unclothed.” The pastor leaned forward, the wrath of God in his eyes. “You must marry her.”

Even a fever, aches and pains, and very nauseated stomach could not keep him from shooting back up again. “Marry?”

Pastor Dave nodded. “That’s right. It’s the proper thing to do.”

“I hardly know her.”

The pastor thumped his Bible. “It appears you
know
her as the Good Book says.”

Wes groaned and eased back down. “Nothing happened, Reverend.” At least he hoped nothing had happened. He still had no idea why he was lying here in just his drawers.

“I don’t know the woman myself. But I’ve heard stories.” The older man’s eyebrows rose to an alarming height. “Rumor has it she worked at the saloon, engaged in fistfights with cowboys, and just this morning shot one of our best citizens in the leg.” He glanced toward the door as if he expected Anna to rush through, guns blazing. “She’s a nuisance, marshal. You must marry her to save your own reputation, and get her under control.”

Wes ran his hand down his face. “Suppose she won’t marry me?”

The preacher pulled a stern face. “She will. Or she’ll be run out of town.” Once more he leaned in, as if relating a secret. “Those women out there will spread the word the minute I let them loose. Miss Devlin may have nothing to lose−God knows−but you have your good name to uphold. The town would not be happy to learn
that woman
was discovered in your room while you were . . . undressed.”

Marry Anna.

Although the idea did hold some appeal, he’d vowed to never wed and inflict on another person the fear and guilt that had eaten at him all these years. He hadn’t wanted to care for a woman, take a wife, and not measure up. The niggling little voice inside him warned he already cared too much for Anna, shooting sparks of alarm through his body. Either she was from the future, as she’d claimed−and with his heritage, he couldn’t completely dismiss the idea−or she was loco, and not someone he should tie himself to.

Her unruly enthusiasm and penchant for getting herself into trouble would erase any chance of the peaceful life he’d wanted for himse
lf. With Anna and her crazy ideas, he’d spend his life rescuing her from one disaster or another.

If she was from the future, no doubt she was anxious to return to her life there. He could grow to love her, and she would one day vanish. But the preacher was right. Not only would Anna be branded the town harlot, his reputation as an upholder of the law would be shattered. If he didn’t have the respect of the townspeople, he couldn’t do his job.

“I want to talk to Miss Devlin before any decision is made.”

The preacher slapped his
palms on his thighs and rose. “I’ll go fetch her.” He stopped at the door and turned, once more pointing his righteous finger. “However, I will not allow her to be alone in this room with you.”

Wonderful. He’d have to propose marriage to a woman who would either laugh hysterically or knee him in his nether regions, all while the preacher watched. And no one seemed to have regard for his imminent demise from influenza, either. He’d sighed and closed his eyes, hopelessly wishing this was all nothing more than a bad dream.

“You may kiss the bride.”

Anna gazed up at Wes and her muscles tightened into a hard ball. She was married. In eighteen hundred and seventy. To a marshal from the old west, in wherever they were in Kansas.

The last week had passed in a whirlwind. By the time she’d spent a scant five minutes in the company of the two harridans that had come with the preacher to Wes’s house on that fateful day, she’d just about had enough. The ladies from the church had gone from glaring at her, to putting their heads together to whisper, all the while casting glances in her direction, shaking their heads and tsking.

How did she get herself into these fixes? All she’d wanted to do was cool Wes off so he’d be more comfortable. Well, okay, she also did a bit of the ‘Peeping Tom’ act at his awesome body, but really, what red-blooded woman could resist? Perhaps the women from this time period, but certainly none that she’d known in her past—future—life.

Lord, what was taking the preacher so long, and why did he want to talk to Wes alone? She was already under arrest, so there couldn’t be anything worse he could demand.

“Miss Devlin, if you please?” The old coot had strode down the hall, clutching the Holy Book, all virtuous anger and bluster. She sighed and headed toward him.

“The marshal has something to say to you.”

Now what? Probably telling her she had to leave town. No, he couldn’t do that because she was still his prisoner. She considered he might have decided to put her behind bars
until the circuit judge came. He probably thought that would keep her out of trouble.

“Is he asleep?” she’d whispered as she crossed the room and studied his peaceful repose.

“Marshal.” The preacher’s booming voice, well-honed from numerous sermons over the years, caused Wes to flinch.

His eyes, when opened, were sunken in his head and he looked dreadful. Sweat had plastered the hair to his forehead in damp curls. His heavy beard was already showing stubble, and his lips were cracked and dry.

Wes held his hand out to her. “Come here.”

He looked so grim, Anna’s heart began to pound against her chest, robbing her of air. Surely he really wouldn’t lock her up? Had the preacher insisted she be thrown in jail because a single woman spending time with a near naked man was a crime in 1870?

The questions spun around her mind, making her dizzy. Perhaps it was the lack of oxygen. Or the way Wes watched her as she approached, a brief flicker of something she’d seen before in his eyes. Desire.

She pulled her thoughts away from there. She had enough trouble
without going down that road. Reaching for his hand, she settled on the chair alongside his bed. Somewhere in the back of her mind she noted his fever seemed to have gone down. Despite the hysterics her good deed had caused, it appeared to have worked.

He hesitated, opened and closed his mouth once or twice, then spoke. “Will you marry me?”

If he’d asked her to go for a camel ride in the moonlight while he serenaded her with a banjo, she couldn’t have been more surprised. She tugged her hand from his as if it burned. "Marry?” She stood and backed away, banging into the wall. “Are you crazy?”

“Miss Devlin. The marshal here is doing the right thing. You, an unmarried woman, have been discovered in his home, by yourself, while he was undressed.” The Bible-brandishing preacher started forward, his spine stiffened. “If you have no concern for your own reputation, think of the marshal’s. People look up to him, respect him. When word gets out—and believe me, it will—not marrying you would force him to leave town. And we like our marshal. Do you want to be responsible for a man losing his job?”

“No, of course not. But marriage? Isn’t that a bit over-reactive?” She glanced at Wes who still looked deathly ill. All this commotion was not good for someone suffering from the flu. “Can we talk about this after Wes recovers from his illness?”

“We can arrange to have the ceremony after he’s better, but it is my moral duty to remain here until this has been settled.”

What a mess. Anna envisioned her, the preacher, and Wes taking up residence in the small, stuffy bedroom until she broke under the strain.

Wes reached for her hand once again, tugging her forward. She sat in the chair and covered their linked hands with her other one. “Is this what you want?”

“We have no choice.”

So she was to marry a man who was doing his duty. Who felt he had no choice. She snorted. “There’s always a choice.”

“Would it be so awful?”

Anna considered the question as she studied him. Marriage to Wes. Her life had been so out of kilter lately, even this didn’t seem that strange. Heat rose from her center in a slow climb to her face, leaving shivers behind. She would get to join him in bed. From what she’d seen, he certainly had all the right equipment to make it enjoyable. Would he mind that she wasn’t a virgin? Not that she had a great deal of experience, but there was the matter of that little piece of membrane missing from her vagina.

Almost as a secondary thought, she contemplated her previous life. If she fell in love with Wes—and she was halfway there already—would she still want to go back? Could she accept a life with no hot showers, tampons, or Godiva chocolate?

“What do you say? I really need to get more rest.” Wes
ran his tongue over his dry lips, his eyelids heavy with sleep.

“How can I possibly turn down such a romantic proposal?” Anna turned to the preacher. “Fine, Padre, set up the wedding ceremony. But not until our friend here is back on his feet.”

Wes drew her from her musings when he cupped her face with his large hands and lowered his head.

Since the preacher insisted she move into the pastoral home with him and his wife until Wes was back on his feet, they’d spent the past week apart. Her senses went into overload as his lips covered hers, sipping, nibbling, and altogether too delicious with an audience.

At the preacher’s slight cough, Wes released her, but the fire in his eyes set her heart to galloping and her toes to curling. If the slight flush on his face gave any indication, he’d been affected by their kiss as well.

They turned and faced the group gathered in the church. The preacher’s wife, Alice, had done her best to quell any gossip, although the story of Anna being with an undressed marshal did make the rounds. The sweet woman dragged Anna from one church activity to another, her staunch supporter daring anyone to spurn the miscreant she and the preacher harbored.

Anna had actually enjoyed herself, meeting other women of the town. It amazed her to discover most of the ones her age had already been married for several years and many had a string of children. An awkward moment arrived when she and Laura Martin came face to face. After some stiffness, Laura wished her well, and a collective sigh of relief sounded, the ladies apparently concerned about witnessing Anna’s reputation for scrapping.

Wes
clutched her hand and they started down the aisle, headed to the church hall where Alice had arranged a small party. Anna took a peek at her new husband. He’d lost weight, but still had the brawn she’d already witnessed, and was anxious to run her hands over. Misbehaving curls, still damp from his bath, covered his forehead, tempting her to comb eager fingers through the silkiness. His black pants and the white shirt stretched over his broad chest had been freshly washed and ironed. Seemingly aware of her scrutiny, he flashed a grin, and her heart performed a triple time cadence. Hopefully the party wouldn’t last long.