Come Home to Me (3 page)

“The only way you’ll return to your time, Jake, is to get these folks, and especially Rachel Parker, to their destination. There is no other way home,” the reverend called to him.

Jake stopped, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. He clenched his jaw, and his hands fisted tightly at his sides. His head pounded worse than before. If he hadn’t been standing in a house of worship, he would hurl a few choice words at the crazy old man behind him.

“You’ll be back to hear me out, but until then, do yourself a favor and go along with what people say to you.”

Jake stopped, and listened to the reverend without turning around to face him.

“Don’t try and convince anyone that you’re from the future, or you’ll most likely end up in jail here as well.”

Jake pulled the door open, and headed out into the bright sunlight. He had to get away from this crazy nightmare. He glanced left and right, trying to decide what to do and where to go. There had to be a phone around here somewhere. The church was the last building in this little town. A dirt road marred by countless wagon ruts led to . . . he had no idea where. There was nothing but open prairie in that direction. The other way led through town.

Jake decided to head back toward the barn he’d woken up in at the other end of town. Maybe the parking lot was in that direction, and he could ask someone for a ride to the nearest real town. This re-enactment town looked to have been erected out in the middle of nowhere.

He dodged riders, and horse or mule-drawn wagons as he walked up the street, glancing at the log buildings on either side. He didn’t spot a payphone anywhere.  Men and women walked along the hard-packed dirt roads, all dressed in authentic-looking period outfits, carrying on as he would expect townsfolk in the 1840’s to do. 

When he approached the livery at the other end of town, Jake noticed more than a dozen or so Conestoga-type wagons parked in a field some 100 yards past the outskirts. A large white tent was erected off to the side, and several men and a few women mingled around in front. He recognized Elijah Edwards with his bushy black beard and huge beer belly as one of the men, and Jake preferred to avoid him.

Was the parking lot somewhere beyond the wagons? Jake headed for them, hoping to see some signs of modern civilization. Maybe one of the re-enactors had a cell phone. A few men, but mostly women and children, moved about. Women tended to cooking fires, children ran around chasing each other, and a few men inspected wagon wheels or axles. Wooden crates, burlap sacks, furniture, and other items were piled along several of the wagons.

Women glanced up from their chores, frowns on their faces when he walked past, and several young girls put their heads together, giggling. A couple of men nodded to him. Jake didn’t stop to talk to anyone. Looking beyond the last wagon parked in the field, he scanned into the distance and all around. Nothing. No road, at least not the paved kind, no cars, and no sounds of anything modern. Cows, sheep, and oxen grazed the lush green grasses further off in the distance.

A child yelled out, and Jake turned his head in the direction of the noise. Along the side of the last wagon sat three small children, playing with sticks in the dirt. The youngest, a little boy Jake judged to be no older than two, adamantly grabbed for a piece of wood that another boy, probably twice his age, pulled away. The little kids weren’t what caught Jake’s attention, however.

A woman stood, fastening something to the side of the wagon. She turned to give her attention to the crying boy at her feet. She looked young. Jake figured she couldn’t be older than nineteen or twenty. His gaze dropped to the kids in the dirt, then back up at her. Wisps of her chestnut hair came loose from her long braid that fell down her back nearly to her waist, caressing her face in the breeze. Unlike the rest of the women he’d seen, she didn’t wear a bonnet. She shook her head, and stood into the wind so that her hair blew out of her face. Her plain brown cotton dress hugged her legs as it fluttered in the breeze.

 Jake stood, mesmerized. She smiled and laughed with the little kids. Jake wished he stood close enough to see what color her eyes were. She glanced up, still smiling, and her gaze met his for the briefest of seconds. The smile froze on her face, and she quickly looked away. Something in Jake’s chest constricted at that moment.

What the hell are you thinking? After that disaster with Sandra, you’re already ogling another female.

“Mr. Owens,” a stern voice grumbled next to him. Jake tore his eyes off the pretty girl, and looked down at a squat man who barely reached Jake’s shoulders in height. He wore a brown cotton suit, and clutched a hat to his head, trying to prevent it from blowing off in the wind. Jake raised his eyebrows expectantly at the man.

“Mr. Owens, Mr. Wilson, the wagon master wants to get the meeting started, and asked me to find you. Your presence is requested to put the minds at ease of some of the men about the journey.  The meeting is over yonder, in that white tent.” The man pointed in the direction Jake had just come from. 

Jake glanced at the girl by the wagon again. She knelt down, wiping at the smallest little boy’s face with a white rag.

“You’d best not get caught looking at the ladies on this trip, Mr. Owens,” the squat man said in an authoritative voice. “Especially not the married ones. We’ve all heard of your reputation, not only as a scout, but also with women.” He jutted his chin in the pretty girl’s direction.

“Who is she?” Jake asked, despite the obvious warning.

“That’s Mrs. Rachel Parker.” The squat little man emphasized the Mrs.

Rachel Parker!
 Jake stared at her again. The girl he was supposed to get safely to Oregon? She was married? Just his dumb luck. He could see himself staring down some jealous husband’s rifle barrel just for looking at her. Why did Johnson say that she needed looking after if she had a husband?

Jake stopped his train of thought. He wasn’t going to Oregon. He wasn’t leading a mock wagon train. He was getting the hell out of here.

“Come along, Mr. Owens, before the wagon master tans both our hides for being late to the meeting.”

With a final glance at Rachel Parker, Jake turned and, against his better judgment, followed the garden gnome back toward town.

Chapter 3

Rachel Parker scooped up little David, and balanced him on her hip. The boy sniffed, and wrapped his pudgy arms around her neck. She ventured a quick glance over her shoulder.  Short Mr. Sanders was walking away with the broad-shouldered man she’d caught looking at her. From a distance, except for his short dark hair, he looked like one of them savage Indians she’d heard and read about.

He wore fringed buckskin pants, and a homespun cotton shirt that was gathered together at the waist by a wide leather belt, and below his neck by simple tie strings. Weapons hung from all sides off his belt. Instead of leather boots, he wore Indian-style moccasins. He didn’t look all that friendly, and that dark stare of his seemed to weigh right on her shoulder as if he’d reached out and touched her. Was he the scout everyone had been talking about? She had felt his intense eyes on her after David started crying, and despite the impropriety, she’d been compelled to look in his direction.

“Ma – ma,” David cooed against her neck, and Rachel smiled. She hugged the little boy close, then set him down on the ground.

“Tommy. Billy,” she said, and waited for the two boys playing with marbles in the dirt to look up at her. “Could you take David over to Mrs. Edwards’ wagon, and ask if he can play with their puppies? I really need to get some of these things loaded into the wagon, and with the three of you under foot, I won’t be able to get anything done.”

“Where’s Papa?” Billy, the oldest at five years asked, and looked around.

“I don’t know.” Rachel sighed. “Most likely he’s with the other men, waiting for the meeting to get started.” She tried to sound cheerful for the boys’ sake. She hoped Thomas was with the other men, although she doubted it. He was more than likely over at the saloon. His drinking had gotten worse over the months, instead of better, ever since . . . Rachel had hoped that the idea of going west, starting a new life, would cheer him up, but it hadn’t helped. His loss was still too fresh in his mind. Time would have to heal his wounds and help him forget.

The boys scurried off, David toddling after them. Hopefully the puppies would entertain them all long enough for her to get some of their belongings and provisions packed. She couldn’t count on Thomas to show up and lend a hand, and everything had to be ready come morning when they headed out. Whatever wasn’t packed in the wagon by nightfall would be left behind.

After the boys disappeared between two other wagons, Rachel inhaled a deep breath, and climbed up into the bed of her rig. If she got lucky, she might have an hour to herself to pack without the children underfoot. She began by rearranging the bedding and the children’s clothing, condensing as much as she could into one wooden trunk. After making room for the heavier supply boxes and sacks stacked outside, she lowered the wagon’s tailgate, and climbed down. Her hand slipped and caught on the metal hinge. Rachel hissed and pulled her hand away. Blood dripped freely from her palm. She grabbed for the rag she’d used to wipe David’s face earlier, and wrapped it around the wound. Her pulse throbbed strong in her hand, and the burn increased with every minute.

There was no sense worrying about it. She had to get her wagon packed. The bleeding would stop, but the throbbing only increased. Rachel eyed the heavy sacks of flour on the ground. Waiting for the pain to subside, she glanced around the clearing. She noticed some of the men return from the white tent that the wagon master, Mr. Wilson, had erected as headquarters for himself. With some regret, she wished now that she had attended that meeting. She was reasonably sure Thomas hadn’t been there, and wished fervently that he would be here now to help her load their supplies.

Rachel stared again at the pile of their belongings and provisions in front of her. The pain in her hand had not let up. Taking a deep breath, she bent over and wrapped her arms around the first flour sack. With a groan, she tried to straighten her back with the heavy sack in her arms, and fought to raise it to waist level. Under normal circumstances, this wouldn’t be such a problem, but she didn’t have full use of her hand. If she could lift the sack to the tailgate’s height, she could push it onto the wagon.  She gritted her teeth, and squeezed her eyes shut momentarily. This was only the first of eight of these fifty-pound sacks she had to lift, and she was already struggling.

Rachel’s arms trembled, and she was sure she was about to drop the sack now that it was inches from the wagon, when her load suddenly became light as a feather. A pair of strong arms lifted the sack away from her, and easily swung in onto the tailgate. The wagon creaked and swayed slightly from the added weight. Startled by the unexpected help, she glanced to her side, just as her hips and thighs bumped against the solid form of a man. A pair of deep brown eyes met her stare. She inhaled the clean scent of leather along with something spicy she had never smelled before. It was not at all unpleasant.

“Looks like you needed a hand, ma’am,” the man said, and the corners of his lips rose in a grin that looked much too wicked.

Rachel took an involuntary step back, the air suddenly leaving her lungs. Her heart began to beat faster, and she swallowed the unexpected lump in her throat.  The man she’d seen earlier from a distance, the one she assumed was the wagon train’s scout, now stood mere inches from her. He was the most handsome man she had ever gazed upon.

“Th . . . thank you,” she stammered, feeling foolish at her silly reaction.

“No problem,” he drawled casually, and tipped his index and middle finger against his temple. Rachel wondered at the odd gesture, while mesmerized by his deep and sensuous voice. He jutted his chin at the stacks of flour sacks and boxes on the ground a few feet away.

“Need help loading this stuff?” he asked as if in passing.

His words, the way he spoke, sounded odd, and Rachel wondered if that was how men conversed out west.  She hesitated, unsure of whether to accept his help. She flexed her fingers, and her palm throbbed. If she declined his offer, she would have to try again to load everything herself. She certainly couldn’t wait for Thomas to return, and even when he did, he would most likely be too drunk to be of much help.

“Better put something on that cut, or it might get infected.” He pointed at her wrapped hand. “In any case, it don’t look like you’ll be doing much lifting for the next day or so.”

The man’s eyes locked on hers. Rachel had to look away. His unwavering stare was too unsettling. She blinked, and lowered her gaze to the ground. She’d heard the talk about this man’s reputation of carousing with women. If she accepted his help without Thomas’ presence, would her own reputation be sullied? Gossip abounded in the wagon train camps, and no doubt word would spread fast that she had been alone in the company of the scout.

Rachel lifted her chin, and smiled at the man. She couldn’t worry about the busy bodies in camp. They certainly weren’t going to help her load her wagon.

“I would be much obliged for your help, Mr. . . .”

“Jake Owens.” He held out his hand to her.

“Thank you, Mr. Owens,” she said, and slipped her hand into his for a quick shake. His fingers closed around hers, and her entire arm began to tingle from his touch.

“Call me Jake,” he said. His eyes were still on her. Rachel pulled her hand from his grip, her heart hammering in her chest and up into her throat. Goodness! Those eyes and that smile took her breath away. She could understand how he was able to charm the ladies. She wouldn’t dare do as he suggested. Calling him by his given name would be much too forward.

“I’m Rachel Parker,” she offered, to be polite.

“I know who you are,” he said as if he was merely commenting on the weather, and the smile on his face widened. Rachel stared at the dimples in his cheeks, momentarily shocked at his words.

“That squat little man, Mr. Sanders, gave me your name,” he said before she had a chance to respond.

“Oh,” she stammered, taken aback. Her pulse rate increased again. Rachel suddenly regretted accepting his offer of assistance. Why would Mr. Sanders give this man her name without a proper introduction? She twisted her hands in a knot in front of her. She usually didn’t get this tongue-tied or nervous in front of another person.

“He also told me you were married, and warned me to stay away,”     Jake . . . Mr. Owens said slowly. He took a step toward her, closing the distance between them that she’d created moments before when she backed away from him. Rachel was compelled to look up into his eyes. Her breath caught in her throat.

“I know what folks here say about me,” he continued, his dark eyes staring straight into her. “Some of it might be true, most of it probably isn’t, but I can’t tell people what to think.”

Rachel sensed a sudden bitterness in his voice. She swallowed back the lump in her throat. She herself was guilty of making assumptions about him based on talk she’d heard.

“So I’m wondering,” he added in his slow drawl, and leaned toward her,  “where’s your husband? Why isn’t he here helping you?”

“Thomas?” she managed to produce, but her voice sounded more like a squeaky barn mouse. She glanced around nervously, hoping no one saw her, while at the same time wishing another person would interrupt them. Jake Owens was the most forward and intimidating man she’d ever met.

“Your husband’s name is Tom?” His eyes turned hard, and the muscles along his jaws clenched.

“Thomas,” she corrected on impulse.

“My brother’s name is Tom,” Mr. Owens said, almost to himself. He raked his fingers through his short hair, then flashed her another smile that looked forced. His eyes fell on the items that needed loading into the wagon.

“What would you like loaded first?” he asked. His voice had gone as cold as his facial features.

He hadn’t waited for a response to his first question, Rachel realized with some relief. How would she have answered? That Thomas was more than likely at the saloon, drowning his sorrows in a bottle? Many people from their group already knew about Thomas’ drinking habits. It would be only a matter of time before everyone found out. Rachel desperately hoped that once they were on their way, he would forget about the liquor, and take an interest in his family again.

“Rach . . . Mrs. Parker?” Mr. Owens’ brows rose, waiting for her reply to his earlier question.

“Please . . . the flour first.” Rachel stammered. She shook her head slightly. She was making a complete fool of herself. The way her mind turned to churned butter in Mr. Owens’ presence was downright embarrassing. He’d almost called her by her first name. 

He lifted one flour sack after another into the wagon without any effort at all. It took him no more than five minutes. She would certainly be struggling with the first or second sack at this point.

“What now?” he asked, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead.

“If it’s not too much trouble, I need to store the sacks under the top floor of the wagon, and then these boxes on top.” Rachel pointed to the boxes filled with sacks of salt, dried beans, salted pork, bacon, a few dozen precious eggs she’d packed in cornmeal, dried fruit, and the rest of the food supplies she’d purchased. The proprietor of the mercantile had delivered the supplies, but he had refused to stack them in the wagon. Ideally, all these items should have been purchased back in Springfield, but Thomas had been a poor planner for this trip, and Rachel had only found out after their arrival here in Kannesville that they were severely short on most supplies other than those she had stored away over the winter.

In less than an hour, Mr. Owens had her wagon packed. No sooner had he finished, when Mrs. Edwards sauntered toward her, Billy, Tommy, and David in tow.  Her skirts swished in the breeze while her hips wiggled from side to side. The buxom woman’s eyes widened when Mr. Owens hopped from the tailgate of the wagon, landing a few inches from Rachel’s side. 

“Ma - ma – ma - ma,” David gurgled loudly, and toddled toward her. Rachel knelt down. The little boy fell into her outstretched arms, and she hugged him close.

“Were you a good boy for Mrs. Edwards, my angel?”

“Puppy,” David said against her ear.

Rachel stood to her feet, and David wrapped his legs around her waist like a monkey she’d seen at the circus a few years ago. She balanced him on her hip, and smiled at Mrs. Edwards. The woman’s hands were fisted at her own hips, and she wore a disapproving scowl on her face. Her eyes darted from Rachel to Mr. Owens.