Wine & Roses (14 page)

The quiver returned, this time making Abby shudder noticeably. “What a thought.”

“You’re a believer now, are you?”

“Not exactly. I just don’t have the focus right now to figure out what’s going on.” She’d been feeling steadily worse, her queasiness developing into a dull ache in her temples.

“Has your beau come back from Europe yet?” Oscar asked, astutely deducing what might be on her mind.

Abby simply nodded, the mention of Jason causing her heart to dip.

“Things not working out?”

She lifted her shoulders, then let them sag. “I don’t know. Time will tell, I suppose.”

Reaching across the table, Oscar patted her hand in encouragement. “Take heart. Sometimes these things aren’t meant to last. A pretty lady like you is sure to find someone else soon enough.”

Abby offered a small smile, but could only imagine how attractive she’d look in a few months, with swollen ankles and a belly like a beach ball. But what did it matter? She didn’t want anyone other than Jason to want her.

“I should get home.” The moment she rose to her feet a wave of vertigo hit her, making her sink back onto her chair.

Oscar pushed his chair back, hurrying to her side. “Are you all right?”

“Just a dizzy spell. I’m fine.” Abby buried her face in her hands, attempting to stay as still as possible until the dizziness passed.

“You keep saying that, but I’m not buying it,” he admonished, his hands on her back to support her. “Is there someone who can take you home?”

Abby first thought of Jason, rejecting the idea just as quickly. The other possibility was Marguerite, but she’d gone out with her husband to celebrate their anniversary. “I’ll be okay in a bit.”

“Why don’t you go upstairs and lie down?” Oscar suggested. “Your favourite room is free again tonight.”

Abby didn’t relish the notion of being alone in that room, but the idea of lying down someplace more comfortable than the old sofa in the lounge was too appealing to reject.

“All right,” she said, allowing Oscar to help her to her feet.

* * *

Damp and chilled to the bone, Jason shuddered, blinking into the thick haze surrounding him. Muddled sounds reached him from somewhere nearby—intermittent sharp cracks among more resonant
booms
that shook the ground under him; voices, several at least, shouted words that cut through the air with urgency yet were unintelligible.

Unable to see anything around him in the mist, Jason peered down at the matted grass under his feet, noticing the mud-caked black boots he wore. Further examining himself, he noted with surprise the rest of his attire— white breeches, a red wool tunic, and white leather crossbelts that crisscrossed his chest, joined over his heart with a decorative brass plate. At once he recognized that he was dressed as a 19
^th
-century British foot soldier, complete with a bayonet and cartridge box resting one against each hip. Both bewildered and fascinated to find himself uniformed this way, he could only come to the conclusion that he was dreaming.

The knowledge that none of it was real did little to diminish the sense of dread that gripped him, as he stood helpless among the deafening noise and hot smoke that rasped through his lungs. Smelling the acrid tang of gunpowder heavy in the air, he noticed only then that his hands were wrapped around the stock of an enormous rifle almost as long as he was tall.

Unable to see more than a few feet in front of him, Jason stumbled forward in a vain attempt to find something familiar. What unnerved him most was that although he could hear voices and muffled movement all around, as far as he could see he was utterly alone.

A blow to his chest sent him stumbling back, and he glanced down to see a small hole in one of the crossbelts. At first he thought he’d been lucky; a bullet must have lodged itself in the leather, sparing him. But as he stared at his chest, a dark patch began to seep outward across the tunic beneath. Jason watched it spread over the cloth, realizing with growing alarm that it was his own blood. He felt his heart pumping furiously, and sensed the blood flooding from his veins with each frantic beat, his body growing steadily colder.

In a moment all feeling drained from his limbs and he fell. Expecting to hit the ground, he instead continued plunging into blackness, tumbling forward and losing all sense of direction.

The darkness began to recede and Jason found himself standing in a room. Relief flooded through him; he wasn’t dead after all. He glanced around, curious, seeing a bed, fireplace, three-panel mirror, chair and washstand. So he was in a bedroom, befitting the time period in which he somehow found himself—
dreamed
himself, rather
.

He hadn’t noticed at first that the four-poster bed in the far corner was occupied. Stepping closer, he gazed at the woman lying still in a white shift, the sheets and comforter covering her tucked under her arms. Her dark hair, damp and tangled, hung limp across the pillow. Approaching her with cautious steps, Jason recognized her delicate features at once.

“Rebecca,” he said quietly, and her sunken eyes fluttered open, their deep blue vivid against the pallid hue of her skin. Her gaze wavered as she struggled to focus on his face. She was obviously very weak, perhaps near death.

“Jack.” Her white hand lifted slowly off the comforter, trembling as it reached for him.

Jason spun to face the mirror, his reflection showing not his own face but that of a younger man. Though he was fair, the stranger’s face was smeared dark with soot, his eyes strikingly round and white beneath the rim of his cap. Though Jason didn’t recognize the man, he realized it must be Jack Norris, Rebecca’s fallen husband. If Rebecca now lay on her deathbed, Jack would have been killed some months before—shot dead on the battlefield.

Before Jason had time to puzzle out why in the world he was dreaming himself into Jack Norris’ body, dead or not, he heard an exhalation of breath from the bed, and glanced back to see that Rebecca’s eyes had fallen closed. She lay motionless, her head lolled to one side, her arm limp. His gaze fixed on the still, fragile hand that had moments before reached out for the solace of the man she loved, and the tragedy of it struck him with a deep, heart-rending ache.

“Sleep well, Rebecca.” He bent to gently squeeze her hand, the skin cool but pliant.

A sudden cry pierced the quiet, and Jason whirled around. No one else was in the room, but he recognized the distinctive, thin wail of a newborn baby, coming from another room. Remembering that Rebecca had died in childbirth, he felt a pang of sorrow for the infant, only a few hours old and now orphaned. He’d seen the child’s name on a chart of his family tree, but couldn’t seem to remember it now, or even whether it had belonged to a boy or a girl.

As he turned back, his gaze coming to rest again on the woman on the bed, Jason stumbled back, gasping in shock and horror. The woman’s face had somehow changed; it was no longer Rebecca, but Abby, whose body lay still and silent on the bed.

He heard himself shout her name and at once he was back in his own bedroom, lying in a tangle of sheets, facing the glowing red numbers on the digital clock at his bedside.

Jason sat up, breathing raggedly as his heart continued to pound. His chest was slick with sweat that had seeped through the front of his pajama top. The terrible image of Abby lying dead lingered in his mind’s eye, the sense of dread heavy on his heart. He dragged a hand over his face, mopping the cool dampness from his forehead.

Go back to sleep. It was just a dream, and it’s over now,
the rational voice in his head advised. Obeying, Jason lay back against his pillow, closing his eyes and willing his galloping pulse to slow its pace. It
had
only been a dream, certainly weird, but likely brought on by stress; maybe it was a message from his subconscious that would make sense once deciphered. A good theory, yes. But it had been so vivid, and so different from anything he’d dreamed before.

Calm down,
he coached himself
.
Abby’s fine. The baby’s fine
… oh Lord, the baby. Jason’s eyes sprang open. He wouldn’t have expected the thought of losing the baby to disturb him so deeply. He hadn’t been able to think of his future child as much more than a problem to be dealt with, or an unhappy consequence of his own carelessness. Yet the idea of losing it along with Abby magnified the apprehension constricting his chest.

He rolled onto his side, frowning deeply as shame swept through him. He’d meant to call Abby yesterday, and had even picked up the phone several times before changing his mind. Though he’d longed to talk to her, he hadn’t wanted to disappoint her again with more insensitive or foolish words. He’d wanted to be sure of his intentions before he spoke to her. It seemed like a stupid mistake now; talking to her may have helped him sort through his thoughts as well as reassure her that he wouldn’t abandon her.

He’d call her first thing in the morning, he decided, and ask to see her. He’d apologize as profusely as necessary. Everything would be fine. Good, now he could sleep.

Try as he might to doze off, Jason spent the next half-hour tossing and slapping his pillow in an effort to find a comfortable position. The nagging feeling of unease simply wouldn’t leave him.

He stared at the clock. It was almost one o’clock, too late to call Abby. But he had to speak to her. Surely she’d forgive him for waking her up. Grabbing the phone off the bedside table, he punched in her number, anxious to hear her voice as he waited. But she didn’t answer. After several rings her voice mail activated. Jason hung up, frustrated.

Well, maybe she turned off her ringer at night to avoid being disturbed. Hanging up, he tried her cell phone. Still no answer. He’d have to try again in the morning.

Flopping back onto the bed, Jason tried to clear his mind and relax, with no better luck. He simply wasn’t going to sleep until he spoke to Abby, or at least knew for certain that she was all right.

Throwing the sheets off, he stood up and gathered his clothes from the chair where he’d tossed them.

Her house was dark, as expected. Pulling his car into the driveway, Jason hesitated, considering turning around and heading home. She’d be in a deep sleep by now, and he could only imagine the incredulous look on her face as he tried to explain that a frightening dream had compelled him to dash over there in the middle of the night.

He changed his mind when it occurred to him that Abby’s car wasn’t in the driveway. She might have parked it in the garage, but he couldn’t assume that without seeing for himself. Cutting the engine, he grabbed the flashlight he kept in his glove compartment and stepped out of the car, ignoring the possibility that Abby’s neighbours might notice him lurking and summon the police. The side wall of the garage had a small window, and he leaned his forehead against the pane, aiming the flashlight into the dark.

Abby’s car wasn’t there.

Jason snapped off the light, alarm beginning to set in. How could she be home without her car? He sprinted up the porch steps and pressed the doorbell, no longer caring if he woke her up. After waiting a moment, he pressed it twice more, but she didn’t come. He proceeded to pound on the door, calling her name. If she
was
in the house and simply didn’t want to see him, surely she’d come to the door to stop him from disturbing the neighbourhood. But his efforts were met with silence.

So she wasn’t home; it didn’t mean anything was wrong. She could be spending the night with Marguerite, for example. Jason knew he should just go home, yet he was unable to squelch the dreadful feeling that Abby was in trouble and needed his help. He didn’t believe in premonitions, but the dream remained vivid in his mind, nagging at him as though it had been a warning.

Standing alone in the dark of her front porch, Jason felt powerless. He willed himself to remain calm, fighting off a wave of panic and resisting his instinct to call the hospital or the police. He could contact Marguerite—if only he knew her number or address.

The inn.
It was the only other place he could think of where he might find Abby.

Jumping back into his car, he backed out of the driveway and headed down the dark, deserted road that led to The Roses.

He was two blocks from the inn when he noticed the smoke, visible above the two-story shops lining the street. Slowing at the stop sign on the corner, he stared up in astonishment at the swirling plumes of gray billowing upward against the black sky.

Abby.

Pressing his foot hard onto the gas pedal, Jason steered his car around the corner and accelerated down the street, his heart thudding so fast and heavy he feared it might burst from his chest.

As the inn came into view, he saw the bright glow of flames wavering behind the windowpanes on both floors.

A cluster of people wearing night attire stood gathered on the sidewalk opposite the building, staring up at the smoldering structure. Bringing his car to an abrupt stop at the curb, Jason leapt out, searching for Abby but not seeing her. He grabbed the arm of a man wearing a tartan robe, looking stunned and rumpled with his graying hair in disarray.

“Did everyone get out?” Jason yelled.

“As far as I know,” the man said.