Between Two Worlds (5 page)

“Please, come with me.” He motioned for her to follow him into the
examination room in the back, and then asked her to take a seat on a long, low
table. He removed his hat, and Delaney saw that his hair was a deep auburn
color. Hanging a stethoscope around his neck he asked, “May I listen to your heartbeat?”

“Uh. Okay.” Although this was a pickup line that had never been
used on her before, and she thought it corny, Delaney felt strangely compelled
to oblige. With her breath locked deep inside her throat, she unbuttoned the
top button of her blouse and opened it to expose lightly freckled skin and the
hint of a lacy white bra.

Gabriel’s gaze skimmed over her cleavage. He gulped softly.

“Is something wrong, Dr. Whitman?” The question came out as a
half-tease.  She didn’t know what had come over her, but flirting with him came
naturally.

He smiled. “No, everything’s fine.” He listened to her heart and
declared it to be sound. “Is your back tender?” he asked, prodding it gently
with his fingers.

“Yes. That hurts.”

“I don’t think any bones are fractured, but a tinge of blue is
rising to the surface of your skin. I’m afraid you’re going to have a bruise.
What about your arm? I noticed you were favoring it.” He lifted her wrist and
turned her arm over.

Delaney held a steady gaze on him as he delicately unbuttoned the
sleeve of her blouse and pushed it up so he could do the exam. Wow. This was
the most elaborate come-on she’d ever experienced from a man. If she didn’t
know better, she would have thought he was an actual doctor. She shivered when
his fingers played across her forearm. He had a gentle, warm touch.

His gaze met hers. “No broken bones. I think some Arnica balm will
soothe your sore muscles and heal any of the bruises that may develop.”

“Thank you.”

He continued to hold her arm in his hand until she cleared her
throat.

“Oh. I guess you’ll be wanting this back now,” he said, letting go
of her wrist.  His warm and intense gaze lingered.

She had a strong desire to crack her knuckles.  As she buttoned
her blouse back up, she said, “Seriously, I’m glad you were nearby when that wagon
driver lost control of his team of horses.  The stunt coordinator should be
fired. It makes me shiver to think how close I came to growing angel wings.”

“Stunt coordinator?” he asked.

“Yeah. There should at least be a speed limit posted in this fake
town.”  With her bones aching, she was only half-joking.

He chuckled. “We’re doing our best to become civilized, but
Phoenix is still a work in progress. Unlike back east, rules and regulations
don’t seem to fly out here in the Wild West.”

Delaney’s back stiffened. “Did you say Phoenix? Do you mean
Phoenix, Arizona?”

“Yes. Are there any others?” He gave her a strange look. “You
didn’t know…you were in Phoenix?”

She mumbled, “Sort of.  Well, not exactly.”

He slid a curious glance toward her. “You can hop down now. I’ll
get the Arnica for you.”

As he rifled through a cabinet for the cream, she slid off the
table and walked straight to the diplomas hanging in frames on the wall. As she
scanned them, her inquisitive gaze landed on one, which showed he’d attained
his medical degree from the University of Chicago Medical School in May of…
1884?

Her jaw slackened.  Then she swiftly recovered.  Naturally, the
prop master on any movie set would assure that the props be as accurate as
possible.  Even down to a diploma on the wall.  Right?  An icy feeling slid up
her arms, and a knot twisted in her stomach.

Gabriel turned. “What is it, Miss Marshall? You look as if you’ve
seen a ghost.” He sidled up to her and thoughtfully searched her face.

She reached down and pinched herself on the leg, causing a red
welt to immediately rise.

His brows knitted together. “Why did you do that?”

“Because I need to know if I’m dreaming. That hurt, so I guess the
answer is no. I’m not dreaming.”

He continued to stare. “I don’t understand.”

Delaney’s heart ricocheted in her chest like a pinball in a
machine. She tried, but failed to keep from stammering when she explained. “I-I
thought…I was dreaming this whole thing, or that I’d stumbled onto a movie set.
I kept thinking I was going to wake up sooner or later. But now I don’t think
I’m dreaming at all.”

“What whole thing?”

“You. The town. Washington Street. Those horses. The bridge.
Everything!” Her frightened gaze darted around the room. “That diploma on the
wall shows you—I mean, your character—received your medical degree in 1884.”

“My character?  I don’t understand what you mean by character. 
But I obtained my degree in 1884.”  He nodded. “That’s correct.  I was at the
top of my class.”

Delaney had had enough with the games. “Stop the act! That can’t
be correct.
Please
tell me you’re goofing around with me.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Perhaps I should check your head.
Please sit down again. Did you hit it on the ground when I knocked you down?”

“No! No!” she cried, batting him away. Her clamoring nerves
screamed
this is not a dream!
She strode around the room and touched
everything she could lay her hands on—just like a blind person reading Braille.
“This table is real. This glass window is real. The wooden floor, your equipment,
and these medicine bottles are real.  Aren’t they?”

“Of course they’re real, Miss Marshall.” Deep concern lined Gabriel’s
rugged features.

She stepped in front of him and plunged her fingers into his thick
mane of auburn hair and said, “
You
are definitely real. Gabriel, you
have to help me understand what’s happening!”

“I’ll try, just as soon as I understand it myself. Sit down and
let me take your temperature.”

“No! I don’t have a fever.” She spun away and spied his walnut
desk in the corner. She scooped up the newspaper that was lying open on top,
but didn’t bother to read the headline. Looking straight at the date in the
corner of the
Phoenix Herald
, she read aloud, “June 7, 1888.”

How can it be? Was the newspaper printed especially for this
movie? Do prop masters actually go to that kind of trouble in order to make every
detail on a set authentic
? She thought she knew
the answer when a rack of
shivers raced
down her spine.

“What is it, Miss Marshall? Please tell me what’s scaring you. Let
me help.” Gabriel placed his hands on her shoulders.

Expelling shallow breaths, she bent over and placed her palms on
her knees. “I’m hyperventilating,” she whispered.

He jogged to his desk, rummaged through a drawer and pulled out a
brown paper sack. He eased her back to the table, and she leaned against it. He
placed the bag over her mouth. “Breathe.” She took several deep breaths.

When the danger of fainting had passed, he took her face in his
hands and gently demanded, “Tell me. What is this all about?”

She fastened her gaze on him and said, “I don’t know how it
happened, but I think I’ve traveled back in time.”

He stepped back without commenting.

“Please, don’t think I’m insane,” she pleaded. You have to believe
me. You claim it’s 1888, right?”

“I don’t claim it to be. Today
is
June 7, 1888.”

“Well, not to me, it isn’t.” Spasmodically, she described her
morning in detail. “When I got up today, it was June 7,
2012
. I
showered, dried my hair with the blow dryer, and put on this power suit because
I had a very important campaign to pitch. My car wouldn’t start so I had to
take a taxi to work, which is how I got this ketchup stain on my skirt.” She
pointed at the dark spot near the hem. “I was nearly late for my presentation
at the ad agency, and then my boss, Mr. Pendergrass, told me to take a couple
of weeks off because I basically suck at my job. When I started to walk home,
this weird little Irishman offered me a ride in his cab, and he seemed to know
where I lived and he also knew that my mother is deceased. We were almost in an
accident involving some road workers. It started to rain, so he told me I
should walk home, since I’d always wanted to walk in the rain. I don’t know how
he knew that, or knew about my mother. He let me borrow his striped umbrella.
Then he said I should take the shortcut across the bridge. Except, I’d never
seen a bridge there before.”

Delaney stopped and inhaled sharply. Her eyes widened. “Sam!”

“Who’s Sam?” Gabriel asked, looking as dazed as a deer in
headlights. “What’s a blow dryer, and what kind of power does your suit have?”

She ignored his last two questions. “Sam’s the Irish cabbie who
drove me to the bridge. He had sparkling green eyes and curly red hair.”

“What’s a cabbie? What bridge?”

“The bridge I crossed to get over here,” she answered, slightly
perturbed. “Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said?”

He scratched his head. The expression on his face showed both
amusement and bewilderment. “Yes, yes. I have. Go on.  Please.”

Her face lit up. “No! I have a better idea. Let me take you to it.
I’ll show you where the bridge is. Then you’ll believe me. Come on!” She
grabbed her purse, pushed away from the exam table, and tugged on his hand. She
dragged him across the parlor and through the front door.

As she pulled him down the boardwalk, he hollered, “Exactly which
bridge are you referring to, Miss Marshall?”

“The one just outside of town,” she called back. She knew she must
look a sight, running through town disheveled, in uneven shoes and filthy
clothes, but she didn’t care.

As if they were just out for a morning stroll, Dr. Whitman nodded
and returned polite hellos to townsfolk as the two of them ran like children,
hand in hand, across Washington Street. They kept up their fast pace down the
dirt road, over the desert, and across the grassy patch, which ran alongside
the river.

When they reached the spot, they were both panting.  Delaney’s mouth
gaped. Standing on the grassy banks, she stared at the flowing river. But there
was no bridge. “Where’s the bridge?” She tried to catch her breath. “I know
this is the place. What happened to it?” She held a hand over her chest,
breathed in and out, and gazed in all directions.

“Miss Marshall,” Gabriel replied between his own shallow breaths,
“are you sure this is the spot? There hasn’t been a bridge here for over a
year. It was washed out last spring during the big storm when the Salt River
flooded.”

“That’s impossible!” She stabbed the toe of her shoe into the ground.
“There was a pretty iron footbridge right here. I walked over it not an hour
ago. Halfway across, I stopped and looked over the railing, admiring this
river. It was raining on my side, and when I got over here, the rain
stopped—just like magic.”

“You said the Irishman, Sam, gave you an umbrella?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s the umbrella now?”

“I don’t know. I must have dropped it somewhere along the way.”
She wasn’t thinking straight. She glanced around but didn’t see the umbrella
anywhere.

“You’re sure it was raining when you crossed the bridge?”

“Of course I’m sure,” she moaned. “It stopped as soon as I stepped
onto this side.”

Gabriel stared. She wasn’t sure if the look in his eyes meant he
felt sorry for her, or maybe he just thought she was a nut. “Miss Marshall,
Phoenix hasn’t gotten a single drop of moisture since that big storm, a year
ago.”

“Well, it was raining in the Phoenix I came from, not one hour
ago!” she retorted.

“What do you mean the Phoenix you came from? You’re not making any
sense.”

Delaney slung her purse off her shoulder and pulled out her
wallet. “I’ll show you. I’ll prove I’m telling the truth.” She opened the
leather wallet and shoved her driver’s license under his nose. He lifted the
glasses that hung around his neck and peered through them. When he read her
birth date and the expiration date of the license, he scratched his head again.

“I…I don’t understand,” he mumbled. “This says you were born in
1988. This must be a mistake.”

“It’s no mistake.”

“It has to be,” he insisted. “If you were born in 1988 that would
mean…”

Her eyes delved into his, which looked more green now than brown. Calmly,
softly, she said, “My name is Delaney Marshall. I live in an apartment at Five
Twenty Broadview Street in Phoenix, Arizona. I work at the Pendergrass
Advertising Agency, and an hour ago, the year was 2012. There was a bridge
right here—and when I crossed over it, I ended up here in 1888.”

He removed his glasses at a snail's pace. She could see the wheels
turning in his head. It was several moments before he spoke. “If what you’re
saying is true…”

“
If
what I’m saying is true?” she cried. “It
is
true!
You can see I’m obviously not like any of the ladies in town. My clothes are
different. My hair’s a different style. I use slang language you’ve never heard
of. You said it yourself—I look odd.”