Wakening the Past: A Time Travel Romance (Medicine Stick Series Book 2) (7 page)

Alistair went home, but instead of going in the house to catch a few hours of much needed sleep, he strolled out into the pasture back of the house. He only owned a few hundred acres of what had once been his grandfather’s ranch, but that other land now belonged to friends and neighbors and he knew he was welcome to walk wherever he wished.

This afternoon he strode with some purpose in the direction of the canyons down by the river that had been chipped away by erosion, giving a peculiar kind of artist’s view of the land. It was easy to imagine old westerns being filmed by Hollywood crews down here, though as far as he knew that had never happened. The real west had occurred here where his Kiowa ancestors had come from the north to make their homes, only to be driven over time into smaller and smaller spaces, even as his grandfather’s ranch had shrunk from expansive acres to a house with some land surrounding it.

Once out of sight of the house, he could almost imagine himself back in those days when men on horseback dominated the plains, their homes built from buffalo skins and their food brought in by their hunters. They’d been a fiercely
independent people and though their lives had been hard; they had been free in a world that seemed to have no boundaries.

Sometimes he envied them.

Bobbi Lawrence claimed she’d seen a warrior on horseback, a silent man of unknown strengths, who had haunted this land. He wished he could believe that, could believe that his grandfather still in some fashion could patrol this land he’d loved.

But he no more believed that than he could accept Stacia’s imaginings. Nope! He
took as real what he could see with his own eyes, touch with his hands, smell in the air around him.

The past was gone and would never come back. He turned on his heels and headed back to the house. A message came in on his phone, telling him that Hart had
lost her keys and left her car by the highway.

He found her extra keys hanging on a hook in the kitchen reserved for such use and, not having taken time to rest, called a deputy to tell him he’d be picking him up so they could get the car back home.

Granny stayed in the restaurant, drinking coffee and chatting with some people she’d met there. Bobbi, feeling a little concerned about Hart after what had happened in the car, went to her room and knocked on the door. “It’s me, Bobbi,” she called.

No answer.

Having knocked several times without response, she went to the desk and asked for a key card to ‘Aunt’ Hart’s room. Since they’d checked in together and most everybody here knew of their friendship, the girl behind the desk gave her the card without question.

She opened the door and calling softly, entered. The drapes were close and the room lay in evening darkness. Hart slept in the big bed, her dark hair fanned out around her face.

“Hart?” she called. Then
she went over to give the sleeping woman’s shoulder a shake. She couldn’t get her to wake up.

Her heart beating faster, Bobbi leaned close to see the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. For just a moment, she’d been afraid . . .

It was like what had happened in the car. Hart had gone off somewhere to that place where she was Stacia. Bobbi didn’t quite understand how that happened since she knew well enough that the other one had died so that only the one she knew as Hart was left. But being a practical girl, she accepted the evidence of what she’d seen happen right before her eyes. She’d seen Hart leave and then come back. It would happen again.

She tiptoed out of the room again to go to Granny and tell her that Hart had asked her to spend the night in her room. They were going to watch a movie together and eat popcorn and chocolate bars. It would be like a sleepover.

Granny nodded, too absorbed in her new friends to mind. So Bobbi purchased some snacks from the cashier and got a soda from a machine, resources in case the night alone grew long, and then went quietly back into Hart’s room.

She turned on the TV to a movie Granny probably wouldn’t have approved—she could be so old-fashioned—turning the sound down low and making a comfortable spot for herself in the big chair and settled down to stand guard over Hart while she traveled who could know where.
Somehow she felt Hart might need her help.

After the little boys and Oma Jeffers left, Stacia tried to relax, though she felt edgy from expecting every second to go back to Medicine Stick Lodge.

Instead she was stuck here at home with Mom and Helen, time she might have treasured if she hadn’t been so worried about what was going on while she was away.

She imagined Alistair arranging to have her locked away for her own protection, worried about poor Mr. Jeffers who could be in danger somewhere, and tried to wish herself back.

It didn’t work.

When Dad and the boys came in from doing their evening chores, her younger brother challenged her to a game of checkers and she agreed, feeling anything would be better than sitting here going out of her mind.

She was beating him soundly as usual when a loud knock sounded at the front door and, before Dad could get to the door, a man yelled, “Let me in! You can’t keep him from me, you bitch. He’s my kid.”

The B word stunned them all. Stacia’s vocabulary had been extended by her months of life in the 21
st
century, but here . . .well, nobody she knew talked like that, not in the presence of ladies.

Frowning deeply, his kindly face a mask of disapproval, Dad opened the door. A broadly built, short man tried to bully through him, but Larkin didn’t give way and the intruder found him an implacable object in his way. “I want my kid,” he demanded loudly.

The man was drunk, Stacia decided in disgust. His face deeply red, his voice slurred, he reached out to grab hold of her father’s arm to steady himself.

“I believe you have the wrong house,” Dad said with overt politeness. Dad didn’t care for drinking, or violence, or men who came in a threatening manner to his house. His standards were high, as even her brothers had been forced on occasion to learn
when they tried to run around with the Rutherford boys from the bootlegger’s family.

“My boy’s Terry Maxwell and she, that Mrs. Jeffers, they said she brought him here with her today. She had no right, he was
okay there at the house by himself, safe as could be. She’s always interfering where she’s got no business.”

Serena Larkin stepped forward, every inch a lady in her
quiet dignity. “No one’s here but our family, Mr. Maxwell, as you can clearly see.” Her two tall sons came to stand protectively at either side and her husband hovered between her and the intruder.

Stacia watched with some amusement as the man sobered enough by this display of strength to stammer an apology and depart the doorway as quickly as his stumbling feet could carry him.

They listened to the roar of his vehicle start up and she voiced the hope that someone else was driving. Helen ran to look out the window and provided the information, “Another man’s behind the wheel. I only hope he’s in better shape than Mr. Maxwell.”

Dad shoed them away from the window. “I’m sorry you and the girls had to be subjected to that, Serena,” he said.

His wife shook her head, looking worried. “I’m concerned about my friend and her son,” she said, “and even more for that man’s poor little boy. Imagine having someone like that for a father.”

Stacia didn’t get to hear her father’s reply because the familiar sense of movement rushed through her and she didn’t even try to struggle, either mentally or physically, as she felt herself moving away until she
was in a wide, sweet-scented bed with Bobbi asleep in the chair at her side.

Almost as though her gaze penetrated the girl’s
slumber, Bobbi’s lashes lifted and her drowsy gaze met Hart’s. She wasn’t bewildered even for an instant, but her mouth curved into a contagious smile. She was a cute kid with a round cherub’s face and a dimple in her chin, reminding her just a little of the way Helen had looked at that age. For an instant, it was almost like having her little sister back.

“Did I give myself away?” she asked, finding her voice roughened by sleep.

Bobbi shook her head so emphatically that her dark hair shifted, seeming as alive as the rest of her. She’d come awake with a blast, ready to go and face whatever she needed.

Hart, who was still half lost in the fog of unconsciousness, envied her. “Nobody knows
? They’re not calling the doctor or sending for an ambulance?”

Bobbi giggled as though Hart had said something actually funny. “I’ve been standing guard. I told Granny we were going to watch a movie together and so I’d stay in your room tonight.”

“You haven’t heard from Alistair?”

“Not a word. Your phone hasn’t even peeped.”

That was odd. It was also weird that she should feel disappointed instead of glad that he hadn’t found out about this latest episode. But she couldn’t but be a little troubled that he hadn’t even checked to make sure she was all right.

“What happened this time?” Bobbi asked. “Did you go back?”

Drat! This kid figured out way too much. Her plan to protect the girl from the troubling events of her own life didn’t seem to be working. But then if Bobbi was really Hart come back . . .

She immediately tried to dismiss this thought.
More likely Bobbi had simply inherited some trace of genetic memory, something deep in her cells that hinted of past events in Stacia’s and Hart’s lives.

That seemed more acceptable, Hart thought, then the idea of reincarnation, of life after life. She didn’t much like that idea, though it would be only fair if Hart, having sacrificed her existence for another, had come back to have a second chance at the happiness she’d missed.

But hey! She’d freak the girl out if she said out loud what she was thinking.

“I’m just thinking things through,” was the most she could admit, “about the Maxwell murder.”

Bobbi frowned, than shook her head.

“My friend
who escaped from prison, Nolan Jeffers. He was supposed to have killed Mr. Maxwell way back when.”

“In the ‘40s?” Bobbi tried to make the connection.

“No, in the mid ‘50s.”

“You went back to that time?”

“I haven’t said I’d gone back anywhere.” Hart sat up, thinking that she was starving. She couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten.

“But if you did, if it was possible . . .”

“I didn’t go to the ‘50s. That’s not my time, but sometimes the seeds of happenings are planted long before they take place.” She stepped on the floor and asked, “Do you suppose the restaurant is still open?”

“It closed hours ago, but I have some snacks if you’re hungry.” She pointed at a stash on a nearby table.

Hart went over to examine what was available. Chocolate bars, some kind of taffy, a bag of peanuts, two of chips and a couple of cans of soda. She settled for peanuts and a lukewarm soda.

Something was playing soundlessly on the TV, but when Bobbi saw her attention directed
that way, she clicked it off.  “You are going to tell me what happened,” she said firmly. “I’ve got to know.”

Hart supposed she could understand her point of view. It would have helped a whole bunch if back when she was a kid there had been some grownup to talk to her about what was
going on even if they hadn’t all the answers at their command.

She sighed. “What do you want to know?” she asked,
nibbling at her peanuts.

This seemed to stop Bobbi cold. Her eyes widened and her mouth gaped, though she quickly recovered. “How come I have dreams about things that happened to other people?”

Hart shrugged. “You’re imaginative and you’ve heard the talk about the lake and the murder and all that.”

It was a weak suggestion and when Bobbi simply raised her eyebrows questioningly, she sighed. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve had weird experiences ever since I could remember.”

Bobbi relaxed visibly at this honest offering. “You’re Stacia, but sometimes you were Hart? I know because I have memories of both of you, though mostly Hart.”

“I can’t give you an explanation, Bobbi, because I don’t know what’s happened to you.”

Bobbi considered this. “I wasn’t born until long after she died. Am I her all over again?”

This was blunt indeed. Hart was surprised that the girl had put this much together. “She died . . .”

“Because she was trying to keep you from being killed.”

Hart nodded.

Bill
Maxwell was waiting for Alistair in his office when he got back from seeing to Hart’s car. A rather small man with a bitter look on his face, he stared at the sheriff with angry eyes.

“I just thought it was time I came by and found out why you haven’t caught that murderer.”

Still tired, Alistair edged into his chair. “Doing our best, Mr. Maxwell,” he said.

Maxwell frowned, his narrow face tightening. “Somehow I doubt that, sheriff. Nolan’s
old enough probably don’t get around much better than I do. It should be a snap to catch him.”

“You’d think so,” the sheriff agreed. He didn’t know either
Bill or his younger brother more than just to recognize them when he encountered them, but he could understand their anger. Seeing your father brutally killed wasn’t something you’d forget, no matter how long ago it had occurred.

It didn’t feel good to be criticized when he was doing everything he could to recapture Jeffers, but that was nothing to argue, defend or debate, not when an elderly man was still suffering the loss he’d witnessed
when young.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Maxwell, but we are working hard to try to find him.”

Bill Maxwell blinked several times as though absorbing what the sheriff had said, actually taking in the words for the first time. “I’m dying, you know. They’re giving me maybe three months.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Maxwell gave a jerky nod. “Everything’s hard, always has been, but I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to Nolan.”

He turned and walked out without saying anything else, leaving Alistair bewildered.
Bill Maxwell seemed to be equally concerned that his father’s killer was on the loose and might injure someone else and at the same time worried that Nolan might get hurt. Experienced lawman that he was, Alistair thought this decidedly odd.

He shook his head, th
an began the routine that accomplished the everyday work of the sheriff’s office, contacting each of his deputies about the ongoing search and other pressing matters, then went back to his car to head out to the lodge and check on Hart.

It was a rare event when
he didn’t look forward to seeing her. With the misunderstanding that lay between them, this could not be a pleasant confrontation.

As he drove, rain began to fall again, glittering on the highway as his lights shone through the night. They’d longed for a good rain for so long, his heart should be lightening that it had finally come. But tonight nothing seemed to cheer him.

He didn’t want to fight with Hart. He wanted things to be with them as when they first married, but the honeymoon had ended when she’d disappeared after telling him she loved someone else. She’d been found hurt and confused and no decent explanation had ever evidenced for what had happened to her.

The logical explanation was that she still suffer
ed from the shock of that incident. If he could just get her proper treatment, then she would be herself again and everything would be all right.

The rain began to come down hard as he drove up into the low mountains where Medicine Stick Lodge had been built above the lake, a place of rare beauty that attracted visitors from across the country. Like Rainy Mountain, this particular spot in western Oklahoma had once been sacred to the
native Americans, not only his own Kiowa tribe, but others as well.

If he’d been an imaginative man, this dark, wet evening would have triggered visions of those ancient wanderers who had led such a unique lifestyle until two worlds clash
ed, leaving the white settlers to bring a very different usage to the land.

But he wasn’t romantic. The only, rather tenuous connection he’d had to that past was his grandfather, who had been a link to a way of life he’d never lived, but had heard about from his
own family. The Kiowa had a way of telling stories that kept bygone days alive, even Alistair knew that.

He parked at the lodge, which seemed nearly deserted this cold, rainy night and strode quickly through the wet evening toward a side entrance, glancing only casually at the huge oil paintings in the lobby as he approached the desk and asked for his wife’s room number. The night clerk knew him, of course, and quickly directed him to Room 108, handing him an extra keycard in case Mrs. Redhawk should be out of her room.

He pocketed the card, but when he got to the room, knocked instead of using it because he wasn’t sure Hart would want to see him.

Bobbi Lawrence answered the door, her eyes narrowing with antipathy when she saw who was there.
Okay, kid
, he thought.
I’m not that fond of you either. You keep showing up at all the wrong moments.

She didn’t greet him, but turned to speak to someone inside the room. “It’s the sheriff,” she said.

“Tell him to come on in,” he heard Hart say and Bobbi stepped back to allow him entrance.

Hart lay, propped up against her pillows on the bed, her face white and her eyes darkened by the
smudges under them. His heart quickened with alarm. She looked sick.

“Maybe I’d better go see how Granny is doing,” Bobbi’s voice broke into his concentration. “You can text me if you need me, Hart.”

Hart nodded. “Thanks, Bobbi.”

Surprised at the girl’s show of tact, Alistair stood awkwardly, waiting until he heard the door close behind her.

“I wanted to tell you your car is back at the house,” he grasped for something, anything to say, suddenly embarrassed in front of her steady gaze.

“Thanks,” she said. “I didn’t quite know what to do.”

“Losing your keys can happen to anybody. Just surprised you got out of the car on the side of the road to lose them.”

“I was checking a tire,” she explained, squirming a little.
“Can’t imagine what happened to them.”

What had they come to, he and Hart, that they were having to force conversation
? Talk had always bubbled easily between them and they’d been as comfortable with their silences as their communication.

He sat down on the edge of the bed. “I hate this, Hart. I still love you as much as ever and yet we can’t seem to talk without falling into an argument.”

Tears shone in her eyes. “I love you too,” she said, sniffing a little as though she were struggling to keep from crying.

She sat up from her pillows to place a quick kiss on his chin. He refused to accept that sisterly gesture and instead attached his mouth to hers, taking and giving an entirely different kind of kiss. That put the torch to the fire between them and they melted against each other, so lost in their embrace that when they heard a knock at the door and a too familiar voice called, “Hart! I’m back,” she stirred restlessly, trying to pull away from him.

He wouldn’t allow it, but whispered, “She’ll go back to her grandmother.” He kissed her again and began to trail his hand along her back in a long, heated caress that drew all her attention and neither of them heard any voice other than that of each other as they proved that though they might have trouble conversing peacefully with each other, they had no trouble with this more intimate kind of communication.