Times Change (7 page)

He found a small plastic box. He was grinning at it as he found the dial and turned on static.

“Mess with the tuner,” she advised him.

He was contemplating
borrowing
it and taking it back home. “Mess with it?”

“You know . . . fool with it. See if you can come up with a station.”

He stared at the little portable for a moment, wondering how one fooled an inanimate object. Making sure Sunny’s back was to him, he took the radio off the windowsill and shook it. Because that seemed stupid, he began to turn dials. The static faded in and out.

“Mustard or mayo?”

“What?”

“On your sandwich,” she said, striving for patience. “Do you want mustard or mayo?”

“It doesn’t matter. Whatever you’re having.” He found some tinny music that was almost audible. How did people tolerate such unreliable equipment? he wondered. At home he had a portable unit that could give him the weather in Paris, a play-by-play of a ball game, a traffic report from Mars and a passable cup of coffee. Simultaneously. This antique child’s toy wasn’t coming up with anything more than what sounded like a banjo playing in a wind tunnel.

“Let me try.” Setting the sandwiches aside, Sunny snatched the radio from him. In moments there was a blast of music. “It’s temperamental,” she explained.

“It’s a machine,” he reminded her, miffed.

“A temperamental one.” Satisfied, she set it back on the counter, then carried her sandwich and her beer to the table. “Weather report’s not much use anyway.” She applied herself to the sandwich. “I already know it’s snowing.”

Jacob picked up one of the potato chips she had piled beside the bread. “More to the point is to know when it’s going to stop.”

“Speculation.” She shrugged as he joined her. “No matter how many satellites they put up there, it’s still guesswork.”

He opened his mouth to contradict her but thought better of it and bit into his sandwich instead. “Does it bother you?”

“What?”

“Being . . .” What phrase would she use? “Being cut off.”

“Not really—at least not for a day or two. After that I start to go crazy.” She winced, wondering if that was the best choice of words. “How about you?”

“I don’t like being closed in,” he said simply. He had to smile when he heard the light tap of her foot on the floor. He was making her nervous again. He took an experimental swig of beer. “This is good.” He glanced around when a voice broke into the music to announce the weather. The cheerful, painfully breezy announcer carried on for several moments before getting to the mountains.

“And you people way up in the Klamath might as well snuggle up. Hope you’ve got your main squeeze with you, ’cause it looks like you’re in for a big one. The white stuff’s going to keep right on falling through tomorrow night. Expect about three feet, you hardy souls, with winds gusting up to thirty miles an hour.
Brrr!
Temperatures down to fifteen tonight, not counting old Mr. Wind Chill. Bundle up, baby, and let
looove
keep you warm.”

“Not very scientific,” Jacob murmured.

Sunny made a rude noise and scowled at the radio. “However it’s presented, it means the same thing. I’d better bring in some more wood.”

“I’ll get it.”

“I don’t need—”

“You made the sandwiches,” he pointed out, sipping more beer. “I’ll get the wood when we’re finished.”

“Fine.” She didn’t want him to do her any favors. She ate in silence for a time, watching him. “You’d have been better off to wait until spring.”

“For what?”

“To come to see Cal.”

He took another bite of his sandwich. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it was terrific. “Apparently. Actually, I’d planned to be here . . . sooner.” Almost a year sooner. “But it didn’t work out.”

“It’s a shame your parents couldn’t come with you . . . you know, to visit.”

She saw something in his eyes then. Regret, frustration, anger? She couldn’t be sure. “It wasn’t possible.”

She refused, absolutely, to feel sorry for him. “My parents couldn’t stand not seeing Libby or me for so long.”

The disapproval in her voice rubbed an already raw wound. “You have no conception of how the separation from Cal has affected my family.”

“Sorry.” But she moved her shoulders to show that she wasn’t. “I’d just think if they were anxious to see him they’d have made the effort to do so.”

“The choice was his.” He pushed back from the table. “I’ll get the wood.”

Touchy, touchy, she thought as he started toward the door. “Hey.”

He rounded on her, ready to fight. “What?”

“You can’t go out without a coat. It’s freezing.”

“I don’t have one with me.”

“Are all scientists so softheaded?” she muttered. Rising, she went into a long cupboard. “I can’t think of anything so stupid as to come into the mountains in January without a coat.”

Jacob took a deep breath and then said calmly, “If you keep calling me stupid, I’m going to have to hit you.”

She gave him a bland look. “I’m shaking. Here.” She tossed him a worn pea coat. “Put that on. The last thing I want is to have to treat you for frostbite.” As an afterthought, she threw him a pair of gloves and a dark stocking cap. “You do have winters in Philadelphia, don’t you?”

His teeth gritted, Jacob struggled into the coat. “It wasn’t cold when I left home.” He dragged the hat down over his ears.

“Oh, well, that certainly explains it.” She gave a snort of laughter when he slammed the door behind him. He wasn’t really crazy, she thought. A little dim, maybe, and so much fun to aggravate. And if she aggravated him enough, Sunny mused, she might just get some more information out of him.

She heard him cursing and didn’t bother to muffle a laugh. Unless she missed her guess, he’d just dropped at least one log on his foot. Perhaps she should have offered him a flashlight, but . . . he deserved it.

Wiping the grin from her face, she went to the door to open it for him. He was already coated with snow. It was even clinging to his eyebrows, giving him a fiercely surprised expression. She bit down hard on her tongue and let him stomp across the kitchen, his arms loaded with wood. At the sound of logs crashing into the box, she cleared her throat, then calmly picked up her beer and his before joining him in the living room.

“I’ll get the next load,” she told him solicitously.

“You bet you will.” His foot was throbbing, his fingers were numb, and his temper was already lost. “How does anybody live like this?”

“Like what?” she asked innocently.

“Here.” He was at his wit’s end. He threw out his arms in a gesture that encompassed not only the cabin but also the world at large. “You have no power, no conveniences, no decent transportation, no nothing. If you want heat, you have to burn wood. Wood, for God’s sake! If you want light, you have to rely on unstable electricity. As for communication, it’s a joke. A bad one.”

Sunny was a city girl at heart, but nobody insulted her family home. Her chin came up. “Listen, pal, if I hadn’t taken you in you’d be up in the woods freezing like a Popsicle and no one would have found you until the spring thaw. So watch it.”

Overly sensitive, he decided, lifting a brow. “You can’t tell me that you actually like it here.”

Her hands fisted and landed on her hips. “I like it here just fine. If you don’t, we’ve got two doors. Take your pick.”

His little excursion to the woodpile had convinced him that he didn’t care to brave the elements. Neither did he care to swallow his pride. He stood for a moment, considering his choices. Without a word, he picked up his beer, sat and drank.

Since Sunny considered it a victory, she joined him. But she wasn’t ready to give him a break. “You’re awfully finicky for a guy who pops up on the doorstep without so much as a toothbrush.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said you’re awfully—”

“How do you know I don’t have a toothbrush?” He’d read about them. Now, with fire glinting in his eyes, he turned to her.

“It’s an expression,” Sunny said, evading his question. “I simply meant that I wouldn’t think that a man who travels with one change of clothes should be complaining about the accommodations.”

“How would you know what I’ve got—unless you’ve been going through my things?”

“You haven’t got any things,” Sunny muttered, knowing that once again she’d opened her mouth before she’d fine-tuned her brain. She started to rise, but he clamped a hand on her shoulder. “Look, I only went through your bag to see—just to see, that’s all.” She turned, deciding a level look was the best defense. “How could I be sure you were who you said you were and not some maniac?”

He kept his grip painfully firm. “And are you sure now?” He caught the quick flicker in her eyes and decided to exploit it. “There wasn’t anything in my bag to tell you one way or the other. Was there?”

“Maybe not.” She tried to shrug his hand off. When it remained, she balled one of her own into a fist and waited.

“So, for all you know, I am a maniac.” He leaned closer, until his face was an inch from hers, until her eyes saw only his eyes, until his breath mingled with her breath. “And there are all kinds of maniacs, aren’t there, Sunny?”

“Yes.” She had trouble getting the word past her lips. It wasn’t fear. She wished it were. It was something much more complicated, much more dangerous, than fear. For a moment, with the firelight flickering beside them, the candles wavering, the wind beating soft fists on the window, she didn’t care who he was. All that mattered was that he was going to kiss her. And more.

The fact that he would do more was in his eyes. The image of rolling on the floor with him sprang into her mind. A wild, willful tangle of bodies, a free, frantic burst of passion. It would be that way with him. The first time, and every time. Raging rivers, quaking earth, exploding planets. Such would love be with him.

And after the first time there would be no turning back. She was certain, as she had never been certain of anything, that if there was a first time, she would want him, she would crave him, as long as there was breath in her body.

His lips brushed hers. It could hardly be called a kiss, yet the potency of it sent shock waves streaking through her system. And had warning bells screaming in her head. She did the only thing a sensible woman could do under the circumstances. She drove her clenched hand into his stomach.

His breath pushed out in a huff of pained surprise. As he doubled over, nearly falling in her lap, she slipped to one side and sprang to her feet. She was braced and ready for his next move.

“You’re the maniac,” he managed after he’d wheezed some air into his lungs. “I have never in my life met anyone like you.”

“Thanks.” She was nibbling on her lip again, but she let her tensed arms drop to her sides. “You deserved that, J.T.” She held her ground as he slowly lifted his head and sent her a long, killing look. “You were trying to intimidate me.”

It had started out that way, he was forced to admit. But in the end, when he had leaned toward her, smelled her hair, felt the soft silk of her lips, it had had nothing to do with intimidation and everything to do with seduction. His. “It wouldn’t be hard,” he said after a moment, “to learn to detest you.”

“No, I guess not.” Because he was taking it better than she’d anticipated, she smiled at him. “I tell you what—since we are family, so to speak . . . I do believe you, by the way. That you’re Cal’s brother, I mean.”

“Thanks.” Finally he managed to straighten up. “Thanks a lot.”

“Don’t mention it. As I was saying, since we’re sort of family, why don’t we call a truce? It’s like this—if the weather keeps up, we’re going to be trapped here together for several days.”

“Now who’s trying to intimidate whom?”

She laughed then and decided to be friendly. “Just laying my cards on the table. If we keep throwing punches at each other, we’re only going to get bruised. I figure it’s not worth it.”

He had to think about that, and think hard. “I wouldn’t mind going for two out of three.”

“You’re a tough nut, J.T.”

Since he didn’t know what to make of that description, he kept silent.

“I still vote for the truce, at least until the snow stops. I don’t hit you anymore and you don’t try to kiss me again. Deal?”

He liked the part about her not hitting him anymore. And he’d already decided he wouldn’t
try
to kiss her again. He would damn well
do
it, whenever he chose to. He nodded. “Deal.”

“Excellent. We’ll celebrate the truce with another beer and some popcorn. We’ve got an old popper in the kitchen. We can make it over the fire.”

“Sunny.” She paused, candle in hand, in the doorway. He couldn’t help but resent the way the flickering light flattered her. “I’m still not sure I like you.”

“That’s okay.” She smiled. “I’m not sure I like you, either.”

Chapter 5

She might have called it rustic. He might have called it primitive. But there was something soothing, peaceful and calming about popping corn over an open fire.

She seemed to have the hang of it, he thought, as she shook the long-handled box over the flames. The scent was enough to make his mouth water as the kernels began to pop and batter the screened metal lid. Though he could have explained scientifically how the hard seeds exploded into fluffy white pieces, it was more fun just to watch.

“We’d always make popcorn this way here,” she murmured, watching the flames. “Even in the summer, when we were sweltering, Mom or Dad would build a fire and we’d fight over who got to hold the popper.” Her lips curved at the memory.

“You were happy here.”

“Sure. I probably would have gone on being happy here, but I discovered the world. What do you think of the world, J.T.?”

“Which one?”

With a laugh, she gave the popper an extra shake. “I should have known better than to ask an astro-whatever. Your mind’s probably in space half the time.”

“At least.”

She sat cross-legged on the floor, the firelight glowing on her face and hair. That face, he thought, with its exquisite bones and angles, was perfectly relaxed. She was obviously taking the truce seriously, rambling on, as friendly as a longtime friend, about whatever came to mind.

He sipped his beer and listened, though he knew next to nothing about the movies and music she spoke of. Or the books. Some of the titles were vaguely familiar, but he had spent very little of his time reading fiction.

He’d touched on some twentieth-century entertainment in his research, but not enough to make him an expert in the areas Sunny seemed so well versed in.

“You don’t like movies?” she asked at length.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You haven’t seen any of the flicks I’ve mentioned that have been popular in the last eighteen months.”

He wondered what she’d say if he told her that the last video he’d seen had been produced in 2250. “It’s just that I’ve been busy in the lab for quite a while.”

She felt a tug of sympathy for him. Sunny didn’t mind working, and working hard, but she expected plenty of time for fun. “Don’t they ever give you a break?”

“Who?”

“The people you work for.” She switched hands and continued to shake the popper.

That made him smile a little, since for the past five years he had been in the position of calling his own shots and hiring his own people. “It’s more a matter of me being obsessed with the project I’ve been working on.”

“Which is?”

He waited a beat, then decided that the truth couldn’t hurt. In fact, he wanted to see her reaction. “Time travel.”

She laughed, but then she saw his face and cleared her throat. “You’re not joking.”

“No.” He glanced at the popper. “I think you’re burning it.”

“Oh.” She jerked it out of the flames and set it down on the hearth. “You really mean time travel, like H. G. Wells?”

“Not precisely.” He stretched out his legs so that the fire warmed the soles of his feet. “Time and space are relative—in simple terms. It’s a matter of finding the proper equations and implementing them.”

“Sure. E equals MC squared, but really, J.T., bopping around through time?” She shook her head, obviously amused. “Like Mr. Peabody and Sherman in the Wayback machine.”

“Who?”

“You obviously had a deprived childhood. It’s a cartoon, you know? And this dog scientist—”

He held up a hand, his eyes narrowed to green slits. “A dog was a scientist?”

“In the cartoon,” she said patiently. “And he had this boy, Sherman. Never mind,” she added when she saw his expression. “It’s just that they would set the dates on this big machine.”

“The Wayback.”

“Exactly. Then they would travel back, like to Nero’s Rome or Arthur’s Britain.”

“Fascinating.”

“Entertaining. It was a cartoon, J.T. You can’t really believe it.”

He sent her a slow, enigmatic smile. “Do you only believe what you can see?”

“No.” She frowned, using a hot pad to remove the lid from the popper. “I guess not.” Then she laughed and sampled the popcorn. “Maybe I do. I’m a realist. We really needed one in the family.”

“Even a realist has to accept certain possibilities.”

“I suppose.” She took another handful and decided to get into the spirit of things. “Okay. So, we’re in Mr. Peabody’s Wayback machine. Where would you go—or when, I suppose I should say? When would you go, if you really could?”

He looked at her, sitting in the firelight, laughter still in her eyes. “The possibilities are endless. What about you?”

“I wonder.” She held the beer loosely in her hand as she considered. “I imagine Libby would have a dozen places to go back to. The Aztecs, the Incas, the Mayans. Dad would probably want to see Tombstone or Dodge City. And my mother . . . well, she’d go where my father went, to keep an eye on him.”

He dipped into the popcorn. “I asked about you.”

“I’d go forward. I’d want to see what was coming.”

He didn’t speak, only stared into the fire.

“A hundred, maybe two hundred, years in the future. After all, you can read history books and get a pretty good idea of what things were like before. But after . . . It seems to me it would be much more exciting to see just what we’ve made out of things.” The idea made her laugh up at him. “Do they actually pay you to work on stuff like that? I mean, wouldn’t it make more sense to figure out how to travel across town in, say, Manhattan in under forty minutes during rush hour?”

“I’m free to choose my own projects.”

“Must be nice.” She was mellow now, relaxed and happy enough with his company. “It seems I’ve spent most of my life trying to figure out what I wanted to do. I’m a terrible employee,” she admitted with a sigh. “It’s something about rules and authority. I’m argumentative.”

“Really?”

She didn’t mind his grin. “Really. But I’m so often right, you see, that it’s really hard to admit when I’m wrong. Sometimes I wish I was more . . . flexible.”

“Why? The world’s full of people who give in.”

“Maybe they’re happier,” she murmured. “It’s a shame the word
compromise
is so hard to swallow. You don’t like to be wrong, either.”

“I make sure I’m not.”

She laughed and stretched out on the rug. “Maybe I do like you. We’re going to have to tend this fire all night unless we want to freeze. We’ll take shifts.” She yawned and pillowed her head over her hands. “Wake me up in a couple of hours and I’ll take over.”

When he was certain she was asleep, Jacob covered her with the colorful blanket, then left her by the fire. Upstairs, it took him less than ten minutes to make some adjustments to the desktop computer and tie it in so that it would run off his mini unit. The mini didn’t have the memory banks of his ship model, but it would be enough to make his report and answer the few questions he had.

“Engage, computer.”

A quiet, neutral voice answered him.
Engaged.

“Report. Hornblower, Jacob. Current date is January 20th. A winter storm has caused me to remain in the cabin. The structure runs off electric power, typically unreliable in this era. Apparently the power is transmitted through overhead lines that are vulnerable during storms. At approximately 1800 hours, the power was cut off. Estimated time of repair?”

Working . . . Incomplete data.

“I was afraid of that.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “Sunbeam Stone is resourceful. Candles—wax candles—are used for light. Wood is burned for heat. It is, of course, insufficient, and only accommodates a small area. It is, however . . .” He searched for a word. “. . . pleasant. It creates a certain soothing ambiance.” Annoyed, he cut himself off. He didn’t want to think of the way she had looked in the firelight. “As reported earlier, Stone is a difficult and aggressive female, prone to bursts of temper. She is also disarmingly generous, sporadically friendly and—” The word
desirable
was on the tip of his tongue. Jacob bit it. “Intriguing,” he decided. “Further study is necessary. However, I do not believe she is an average woman of this time.” He paused again, drumming his fingers on the desk. “Computer, what are the typical attitudes of women toward mating in this era?”

Working.

As soon as he had asked, Jacob opened his mouth to disengage. But the computer was quick.

Most typically physical attraction, sometimes referred to as chemistry, is required. Emotional attachment, ranging from affection to love is preferred by 97.6 percent of females. Single encounters, often called one-night stands, were no longer fashionable in this part of the twentieth century. Subjects preferred commitment from sexual partners. Romance was widely accepted and desired.

“Define ‘romance.’”

Working . . . To influence by personal attention, flattery or gifts. Also synonymous with love, love affair, an attachment between male and female. Typified by the atmosphere of dim lighting, quiet music, flowers. Accepted romantic gestures include
—

“That’s enough.” Jacob rubbed his hands over his face and wondered if he was going crazy. He had no business wasting time asking the computer such unscientific questions. He had less business contemplating a totally unscientific relationship with Sunny Stone.

He had only two purposes for being where he was. The first and most important was to find his brother. The second was to gather as much data as possible about this era. Sunny Stone was data, and she couldn’t be anything else.

But he wanted her. It was unscientific, but it was very real. It was also illogical. How could he want to be with a woman who annoyed him as much as she amused him? Why should he care about a woman he had so little in common with? Centuries separated them. Her world, while fascinating in a clinical sense, frustrated the hell out of him.
She
frustrated the hell out of him.

The best thing to do was to get back to his ship, program his computers and go home. If it weren’t for Cal, he would do so. He wanted to think it was only Cal that stopped him.

Meticulously, he disengaged the computer and pocketed his mini. When he returned downstairs, she was still sleeping. Moving quietly, he put another log on the fire, then sat on the floor beside her.

Hours passed, but he didn’t bother to wake her. He was used to functioning on little or no sleep. For more than a year his average workday had run eighteen hours. The closer he had come to the final equations for time travel, the more he had pushed. And he had succeeded, he thought as he watched the flames eat the wood. He was here. Of course, even with his meticulous computations, he had come several months too late.

Cal was married, of all things. And if Sunny was to be believed, he was happy and settled. It would be that much more difficult for Jacob to make him see reason. But he would make him see it.

He had to see it, Jacob told himself. It was as clear as glass. A man belonged in his own time. There were reasons, purposes. Beyond what science could do, there was a pattern. If a man chose to break that pattern, the ripple effects on the rest of the universe couldn’t be calculated.

So he would take his brother back to where they both belonged. And Cal would soon forget the woman called Libby. Just as Jacob was determined to forget Sunbeam Stone.

She stirred then, with a soft, sighing sound that tingled along his skin. Despite his better judgment, he looked down and watched her wake.

Her lashes fluttered open and closed, as exotic as butterfly wings in the shadowed light. Her eyes, dazed with sleep, were huge and dark. She didn’t see him, but stared blindly into the flickering flame as she slowly stretched her long, lean body, muscle by muscle. The bulky purple sweater shifted over her curves.

His mouth went dry. His heartbeat accelerated. He would have cursed her, but he lacked the strength. At that moment she was so outrageously beautiful that he could only sit, tensed, and pray for sanity.

She let out a little moan. He winced. She shifted onto her back, lifting her arms over her head, then up to the ceiling. For the first time in his life he actively wished for a drink.

At last she turned her head and focused on him. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

Her voice was low, throaty. Jacob was certain he could feel his blood drain to the soles of his feet. “I—” It was ridiculous, but he could barely speak. “I wasn’t tired.”

“That’s not the point.” She sat up and said crankily, “We’re in this together, so—”

He didn’t think. Later, when he had time to analyze, he would tell himself it was reflex—the same involuntary reflex that makes a man swallow when water is poured down his throat. It was not deliberate. It was not planned. It was certainly not wise.

He pulled her against him, dragging one hand through her hair before closing his mouth over hers. She bucked, both surprise and anger giving her strength. But he only tightened his hold. It was desperation this time, a sensation he could not remember ever having felt for a woman. It was taste her or die.

She struggled to cling to her anger as dozens of sensations fought for control of her. Delight, desire, delirium. She tried to curse him, but managed only a moan of pleasure. Then her hands were in his hair, clenching, and her heart was pounding. In one quick movement he drew her onto his lap and drove her beyond.

His breath was ragged, as was hers. His mouth frantic, his hands quick. Left without choice, she answered, as insistent, as insatiable, as he. A log broke apart, sparks flew to dance on stone. The wind gusted, pushing a puff of smoke into the room. She heard only the urgent groan that slipped from his mouth into hers.

Was this what she had been searching for? The excitement, the challenge, the glory? Heedlessly she gave herself to it, let the power swamp her.

The taste of her seemed to explode inside him, over and over. Hot, pungent, lusty. It wasn’t enough. The more he took, the more he needed. Dragging her head back, he found her throat, the long, slender line of it enticing him, the warm, seductive flavor of it bewitching him. He skimmed his lips over the curve of it, letting his tongue and his teeth toy with her skin. It was still not enough.