Another Dawn (20 page)

      
At the town's insistence, Luke moved into the vacant parsonage. More guilt, yes, but as long as he was playing religious leader, he might as well enjoy the perk of having a bed. At least now he could finally bathe regularly–six more days a week than Zeke thought necessary.

      
Thanks to Mrs. Fleming's donation of her late husband's wardrobe, Luke now had clean clothes, too. Pure luxury at this point.

      
However, despite his return to daily grooming, he hadn't attempted to shave yet. Not only would he have to use an ominous-looking straight razor, but his skin wasn't exactly in prime condition.

      
He looked like a molting bird or a snake shedding its skin. It had started gradually, less than a week after his date with the electric chair. A few days later, he'd been a hideous sight, with dead peeling skin and stubble growing back on his face, scalp, and other areas he couldn't even scratch in polite company.

      
Now, weeks later, he looked like a displaced lifeguard at summer's end. Well, he was definitely displaced and it was September–two out of three–though he was no longer the color of a boiled lobster.

      
Mrs. Fleming had laundered and returned Father Salazar's robe and collar, despite Luke's insistence that they were beyond repair and their return was unnecessary. Well, he'd tried... But now he only wore the robe and collar for funerals, which had, thankfully, grown far less frequent.

      
Dr. Wilson had announced that if they made it until today with no new cases of smallpox, he would declare the epidemic officially at an end and lift the quarantine. Thank God.

      
Luke looked at himself in the warped mirror and stroked his scruffy chin. Weeks' growth of beard mingled with dead flakes of skin. "This mess will keep babes from falling at my feet, priest or no prist," he muttered.

      
Even Sofie?

      
He closed his eyes, remembering that night in her room, when she'd performed a pseudo-tonsillectomy on him in her laudanum-induced state. Fire flashed to his groin, his face and his gut.

      
In that order.

      
Did she remember? Though he couldn't be certain, he had to wonder why she'd avoided him since. Or had she remembered much more than merely a stolen kiss?

      
Like who he was and where–when–they were from?

      
Opening his eyes, he leaned on the dresser with the heels of both hands. At least she hadn't experienced any more fainting spells, and other than a scar he hoped would fade over time, she appeared fully recovered from her injury. Except for her amnesia...

      
But he couldn't be sure without talking to her. Drawing a deep breath, he made his decision and reached for the late Reverend Bodine's straight razor and strap.

      
He would accomplish three things today. Shave his fuzzy, peeling mug without slitting his throat, talk to Sofie and determine whether or not she'd regained her memory, and make a decision about his future. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, number three would be more than a little dependent on the results of number two.

      
It wouldn't be easy, but he had to get on with his life. He couldn't stay in Redemption pretending to be a priest forever. Sooner or later, someone was bound to notice Father Salazar's shortcomings as a priest–not to mention his frequent hard-on–and see him for the fraud he truly was. Then Luke's fresh start would be tarnished big time.

      
Hell, playing priest was probably illegal on several levels, and Luke Nolan wasn't going back to jail in any century. As soon as he made sure Sofie would be all right, he was out of here. Anyone from Redemption searching for Father Salazar later would never find Luke.

      
Unless Sofie told them his real name.

      
He swallowed hard and lathered his face and neck, then clutched the handle of the sharpened blade with trembling fingers. Whether she wanted to see him or not, one way or another, he would talk to her today. That was the only way to find out how much she might have remembered.

      
He'd considered changing his name after leaving Redemption. In fact, it might save a lot of confusion later on, when future generations of the Nolan family traced their family tree. But what about his pride? Dammit, couldn't he keep his name, his dignity,
and
his pride in this new life?

      
He winced as he scraped the razor across his tender skin. Though he hadn't felt any pain from his near-electrocution for over a week, other than itching like mad, shaving would take a fair amount of dead skin along with his whiskers.

      
"Ouch."
 
And a little O positive blood, too. He grabbed a handkerchief and pressed it to his chin. After a few moments, he resumed shaving, nicking himself only twice more before he called his task a success.

      
"There."
 
After wiping the remaining lather from his face, he leaned closer to examine his handiwork. "Not bad, Nolan."
 
A definite improvement, if he did say so himself. Right now, his hair looked like an incredibly short spike any punk would've envied, but eventually the Nolan curls would kick in and take care of that problem.

      
And his disposition was infinitely better. He smiled, rubbing mineral oil on his face and neck. It helped settle the flakes somewhat, and, thankfully, it didn't smell like the bear grease Ab had offered.

      
Amazing what feeling safe and free could do for a guy's mood. Well, almost safe. Would he ever completely lose that nagging feeling that someone was still after him? That at any moment he could be swept back to his own time and an electric chair with his name on it?

      
There'd been several other people in that execution chamber, yet only he and Sofie had come through alive. His heart trounced against his ribs. He'd never forget finding Father Salazar's body. Luke touched the crucifix he'd continued to wear even when not in character, so to speak.

      
But he hadn't actually
seen
the others. In retrospect, if he'd realized running for his life hadn't been necessary, he should've stayed and buried the dead.

      
Buried Warden Graham?

      
A shudder rippled through Luke; he wiped his hands on a rag and cleared his throat. After all this time, he wasn't about to go back to that mountain–assuming he could find it at all. The bodies would be decomposing by now. The execution chamber had become their tomb.

      
A time traveling tomb.

      
No, he couldn't go back there.
Forget it, Nolan
. Those explosions hadn't been his fault, nor were the deaths of those who'd gathered for his execution.

      
Justice? No
. He couldn't wish that on anyone, including the warden.

      
"Well, maybe..."
 
He put on the hat Mrs. Fleming had insisted he wear to prevent another sunburn and walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. "Nah, live and let live."
 
Easy enough for him to say now. Sighing, he opened the door and stepped into the crisp autumn air.

      
Immediately, he zeroed in on the schoolhouse. Sofie was in there, toiling over the sick, and behaving like a proper Victorian lady. Being a twentieth-century doctor, she was undoubtedly a liberated woman, who'd be shocked by her own behavior once she–

      
No, she can't remember. She won't remember.

      
Luke rubbed his temples, trying to banish that damned guilt. Again. Sofie had a right to her life and to her past. But at what price to him?

      
He had to stop treating her amnesia as if it was his fault. It wasn't. Furthermore, he had no power over whether or not she ever remembered anything at all. Still, couldn't he help her by telling her all he knew? Would knowing she was from another century trigger other memories, or maybe help her understand why she was different from the other women here in Redemption?

      
Get real
. Anyone who hadn't experienced time travel firsthand–or didn't remember experiencing it–couldn't possibly believe his story. Strike that idea. He had to keep what he knew to himself and see what she remembered on her own.

      
If only
he
could forget...

      
No bump on the head could erase the pain and injustice he'd suffered. Of that he was certain. He'd never forget, no matter what.

      
Concentrate, Nolan. Right now, he needed to know if she'd remembered anything more.

      
"Ready or not, Sofie..."

      
"Mother says you have a brand like a steer on your, uh..."
 
Dora ducked her chin and blushed.
 

      
Sighing, Sofie straightened from folding the last of the boiled linens. Only two patients remained in the schoolhouse–the burned stranger and Jenny, who'd been more helper than patient for weeks. In fact, she'd taken it upon herself to read to the burned man, who still hadn't been able to speak. The child's presence seemed to comfort the man, though every time he saw Sofie, he became agitated.

      
The stranger was a mystery. At least Sofie knew her first name, though if not for her small silver bracelet, she might not even know that. Still, she suspected he knew his name, but simply couldn't speak. Later in the day, Dr. Wilson planned to move his patient to his home, and Jenny would go with Sofie to the Fleming house.

      
So, despite Dora's badgering, this was a good day. At last, Dr. Wilson had declared the epidemic over and lifted the quarantine.
Hurray
.
 

      
"Did you hear me, Sofie?"

      
Still trying to ignore Dora's fingernails-on-a-chalkboard-voice, Sofie concentrated on the last of the bedding. Soon they would turn the building over to the teacher for school again. The walls, ceiling and floor were being scrubbed with strong lye soap, and Dr. Wilson had insisted the children not return to school until the building sat empty for another week.
 

      
However, those who hadn't contracted smallpox had received the inoculation. Sofie sighed, satisfied there would be no more new cases in Redemption.

      
"Did you
hear
me, Sofie?" Dora's whisper seemed louder than a shout right now.

      
"Yes, I heard you."
 
Obviously, the only way to shut Dora up was to answer. Sofie smoothed her apron and tugged at the ruffled neckline. Despite her pleading, Mrs. Fleming had refused to return her jeans and T-shirt. "Yes, I have a mark–I believe it's called a
tattoo
, not a brand–on the side of my breast. It won't wash off. Satisfied?" Straightening, she shot Dora a challenging look.

      
Dora's mouth fell open, then she giggled like a schoolgirl hearing her first dirty joke. "Can I see it?"

      
"No."
 
Sofie turned and retrieved the stack of folded sheets and towels. "I have no idea what it means or why it's there, but I'm not showing it to you or anyone else."

      
"Mother saw it."
 
Dora pouted, her eyes gleaming maliciously as she leaned against the wall. "She said it's some kind of circle with a butterfly under it."

      
"And the word peace," Sofie added, "is printed under the butterfly."
 
She shrugged and pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen with her back. "Peace is a nice word, so how could the circle be anything bad, Dora? And the only reason your mother has seen it is because she took care of me while I was sick. Now will you just drop it?"

      
"I will if you let me see."
 
A nasty smirk split Dora's round face.

      
"You don't really think I'll fall for that, do you?" Sofie couldn't prevent her grin as she proceeded into the kitchen, despite the fallout from Dora's indignant gasp.