Dream Weaver (26 page)

"I understand this much--you're my wife now. You must learn to live in the wilderness with me, whether you like it or not, and--"

"Am I complaining?"

" 'Tis still a mystery where you came from."

"I told you I came from the future!"

He smiled without humor. "Ah, yes, the future. Well, you're here now in the year of Our Lord, 1763. Best you learn to live with that. "

* * *

Days later, the brilliant late afternoon sunlight shone through the open window, enclosing the small room in a stifling heat.

As Gwen sipped her tea across the table from him, Christian reached for his clay pipe from a nearby shelf, wondering how to tell his wife of his concerns. Immersed in countless anxieties, he poured a measure of tobacco from a pouch at his belt and pressed the tobacco down, then scraped his chair back, heading for the tongs by the hearth. Silent, unmoving, he stood by the hearth for countless moments, staring into the fire. After lighting his pipe, he sighed and sauntered back to his chair.

"What's the matter, darling?" Gwen asked. "Was my cooking that bad?" A troubled frown crossed her face. "Me and my big mouth. Looks like something is bothering you. You want to talk about it?"

"Umm." He puffed on his pipe for a few quiet moments, the rich scent of tobacco filling the air. "Heard about Indian attacks east of here, over
Carlisle
way."

She pressed her hand to her mouth. "Oh, no!"

His gaze covered the room, as if the small space held an answer to his worries. He turned to her again. "Indians burned several houses and killed many settlers...committed such horrible atrocities that decency forbids the telling. 'Tis '55 and '56 all over again! I said naught to you earlier because I didn't want to worry you, but I realize now 'tis best to face facts."

She shook her head. "This is what I've feared for so long. Remember I told you of these attacks, that I knew they would happen."

Crossing his legs, he continued puffing on his pipe. "Well, Indian raids oftimes occur in these parts. The red man is angry at the way the white man has treated him--"

"Can you blame him? We've taken his land, destroyed his culture, always pushing him farther west."

"Well, somehow, some way, the Indian problem will have to be resolved." Christian stared around the room and sighed.

"This problem will never be resolved, at least not to the satisfaction of the Indians. But Christian, you're skirting the issue. We're going to have real trouble very soon--raids, more killings." Hands clenched on the table, she looked so troubled, he'd give anything to ease her mind, to tell her there was nothing to be concerned about. If only it were true!

Frowning, she remained silent for a moment, then spoke quickly. "And I told you the Indian leader's name--
Pontiac
!"

"
Pontiac
?" He shook his head. "Never heard of him."

"Well, I'm sure you will, and very soon."

He puffed his pipe as worries and questions churned in his brain. How could she have known the name of the Indian leader, or had she only recently heard it? He tried a different approach, still striving for acceptance of her fantastic story. Had she really come from the future? How could that be?

"Let's drop the matter of the Indians for now," Christian said. "And let's both accept the fact that Indian raids are not uncommon in these parts. The fact that you knew these raids would happen doesn't prove a thing--"

"But Christian--"

He held up a hand. "Pray let me finish. It's past time for us to deal with the question of what time you came from."

"So do you believe me now?" she asked.

"Shall we say I'm getting there . . . or trying to."

Pushing his plate aside, Christian stretched his long legs out. How could he believe she came from the future? "I have known you for over a year. Surely you know how much I love you, and yes, trust you, too. So I shall listen with an open mind. Tell me about this world of yours." A cold lump settled in his stomach, as if his world had turned upside down. As indeed, it had.

She spread her hands wide. "How can I begin? People travel differently, for one thing. Not by horse or carriage." She paused, then plunged ahead to relate so many changes that had taken place between his century and hers it made his head spin to hear about it. Occasionally she stopped, directing a hesitant look his way, and each time he nodded for her to proceed.

"You mentioned once that doctors use many machines," Christian said. "Don't people do anything themselves?"

"Yes, of course, but machines make things a lot easier for people." Gwen rose to lift a kettle of boiling water at the hearth and poured the water into a large tub in a corner. After returning the kettle to the hearth, she threw him a glance. "Would you believe we even have dishwashers in my time?"

"Dishwashers?"

"Sure, machines that wash dishes."

Christian shook his head, scarcely believing. He observed her quick, lithe steps from the table to the tub, thinking she must surely resent all the housework she must do in his time. Dishwashers!

The setting sun darkened the room. The bookcase stood in shadow, the books and medicine bottles appearing as vague shapes. Gwen looked so lovely in her tan linsey frock, with the muslin cap that crowned her lustrous head of hair, her kissable lips pursed in thought. The supple dress material molded itself to her body, accentuating her full breasts, the curve of her hips. How empty his life had been before he met her! He changed his position to follow her movements, his elbow on the table, his other arm draped over the back of the chair, forcing himself to concentrate on the subject...the twenty-first century.

Christian leaned forward. "And what about medicine?"

"Medicine! How can I ever tell you!" she said, her voice rising. "Immunization shots for so many diseases, special medicines for other illnesses, and a lot of new treatments. It'd take hours, days! to tell you all about the practice of medicine."

She rested her chin in her hands, giving him an expression of deep concentration. "Practicing medicine is a lot different in my other time. Very few doctors make house calls. Instead, they have their own offices where their patients come to them."

He shook his head. "'Tis passing strange." He looked around the room, his gaze resting on the fireplace, the bookcase with all his precious medical texts and instruments. He swung his gaze back to his wife. How primitive all this must seem to her. "I'll wager you miss your own world, don't you?"

"I have you now, sweetheart." She smiled then, but the faraway look in her eyes belied her words.

* * *

The next day, Christian rested his horse by a stream where he and the bay could both get a cool, refreshing drink. Gaunt trees covered hills and valleys, here and there maples blossoming with spring. With Gwen on his mind, as always, he crouched low to scoop up some water and drink his fill. 'Struth, she'd occupied his mind continually since her revelations about her own time.

His thirst satisfied, he hunkered down on the cold ground with one leg drawn up, his gaze roving the meadow. Had his wife really come from the future? He'd told her he believed her, but the very concept strained his credulity, his sense of logic. And if he believed she was from another time, maybe he was a Bedlamite.

Yet, it must be true. How else could she know of all the inventions she spoke of? Mayhap she'd dreamed these things, but no, such things as she'd spoken of went beyond the wildest dreams.

Suppose Gwen asked him to go with her, back to her own time, if indeed, such a trip was possible. From what she'd said about medicine in the twenty-first century, he feared he'd never be allowed to practice. What would his life be worth if he couldn't use his medical experience?

How she must miss her world with its many inventions and discoveries he could scarcely visualize. How unhappy she must be here in the eighteenth century. Oh, she loved him; he never doubted that. But what if a strange power drew her back to her own time--without him?

My God! She might already be gone! He sprang to his feet and mounted his horse, counting the minutes until he saw her again.

Chapter Seventeen

Several days after her revelations to Christian, Gwen pushed past the thick tangle of bushes and tree branches as she made her way homeward through the forest. She and Christian had left their house before dawn, Christian to get necessary supplies from
Fort
Pitt
. Recalling that she needed to borrow salt from Rebecca, Gwen had accompanied Christian as far as the Chamberlains, then both had left after a short visit. Each of them had gone their separate ways. Now she could make some biscuits for supper tonight, she thought as she skirted a blackberry bush and shoved an overhanging hickory branch from her face.

 
The dark forest closed around her, with scarcely any sunlight penetrating the deep gloom of the chestnuts and hickories. Pleasant aromas wafted through the air, the sweet scent of the blackberries and sassafras, the fresh forest smell. Nearly tripping over a thick tree root, she squinted in the verdant blackness as she tried to follow the forest path.

She inhaled deeply of the mid-morning air--and caught the smell of smoke!

Heedless of the scratches on her hands, she shouldered aside low-hanging branches as she raced along the narrow rocky trail. She struggled up a steep incline, then descended into a deep hollow. Shoving the hindrances out of the way, she ran as fast as the tortuous path would allow. A long, thin branch caught at her mobcap, and she jerked the cap off, tucking it into her bodice. Closer to her house now, she saw thick smoke drifting skyward, ashes blowing in her direction.

Coughing, she fought past the dense thickets of trees whose branches clung to her skirt, tearing the material. She tore the fabric loose, not caring if it ripped. God, she prayed, please don't have our house be on fire. Their own home, Christian's books and medical supplies, their clothes and all their precious possessions!

My God, no! The house came in sight, flames crackling and leaping from the outside walls. Drenched with perspiration, Gwen pressed her hand to her heart, too frightened to move as she stared at their burning home. Don't stop now! Keep going!

There, she made it! She screamed as her hand touched the sizzling-hot doorlatch. Ignoring the pain, she stepped back to double the material of her dress around the latch, then opened the door. Hot air blasted her face. She plunged into their house and choked in the thick cloud of smoke engulfing the room. She had to rescue Christian's books and medical supplies.

 
For one frantic moment, she focused her eyes in the small space. Tears streamed down her face, damp locks of hair straggling from her forehead. Damn it, she couldn't see a thing! How could she save Christian's books and supplies when the whole place was dark as night?

She choked and groped through the smoke, touching familiar objects along the way, the bookcase in sight. After a trek that seemed like miles, she reached the bookcase and grasped Christian's medical case. She grabbed a couple of flasks, nearly dropping the hot glass containers. Bracing herself against the pain, she topped the pile with as many jars of medicine as she could tuck under her chin, then rushed outside.

She dashed back inside, agonizing over what to save next. A wave of dizziness gripped her, forcing her to stop. No time to lose! The crackling sound increased, the heat more intense. Smoke scratched her throat, and her lungs ached with a raw, near-to-bursting pain.

The smoke thickened. The flames reached the inside walls, the heat penetrating the puncheon floor. A fit of coughing doubled her, but she had to move! The heat from the floor tortured her feet. Perspiration streamed down her forehead and stung her eyes. Ashes swirled in the swift onrush of air, getting in her eyes and throat, layering her clothes. Remembering that heat rises, she dropped to the floor and crawled along on her hands and knees, choking the entire way. The scalding hot floor tormented her bare hands. She nearly cried with pain.

An overhead beam crashed to the floor behind her, missing her by inches. Blinded by the smoke, she felt in the darkness for the bookcase. After grabbing Christian's medical records and texts, she made herself stand. Sizzling hot books scorched her hands, and flames singed her hair, burning her clothes.

The top volume slipped and fell to the floor. Screaming with frustration, she bent to seize the book and raced outside. Each breath was a struggle as she dropped the books on the ground and clutched her stomach, wanting to vomit. Overcome by smoke, she collapsed on the ground, taking deep breaths. Ashes blanketed her hair and clothes. Every inch of skin throbbed with pain.