Now and Forever (13 page)

"When did this happen?"

"In the summer of 1776."

Andrew grew quiet. July was all but gone. "Can you put a date and place to this event, Mistress Emilie?"

"I wish I could, but there has always been a degree of uncertainty attached to the event." She hesitated, dropping her gaze in a most uncharacteristic fashion.

"Mark me well, mistress. I am not a man afraid of harsh news."

"The truth is that I have no news, Andrew. From that moment forward, you exist only in speculation." Her smile was gentle and for a moment he was reminded of his Elspeth. "I have always imagined that you retired to a life in the country with a wife and children and lived to be a very old man."

Her words struck a chord deep inside him, hidden away in that place where love had gone to die. For the past few years he had not felt himself long for the world. When Elspeth and their son had died, they had taken with them all that was fine and good in the world, leaving him behind to mark the days until he met his Maker.

Some men joined the militia because the fires of independence burned hot in their breasts. Those men became generals, leaders of men. Andrew had joined because he had nothing of value to lose. They made him a spy.

He looked at Emilie who was standing near her companion. "How is it you come to know the ways of this time to such a degree?" Were he to find himself in Plimouth colony at the time of its beginnings, he would be without a clue as to proper behavior. "Sorcery, perhaps?"

"Nothing so exotic. I earn my living--Zane!"

Rutledge suddenly doubled over, clutching his right arm against his chest.

"He's in pain," she said, eyes wide as she looked at Andrew. "Can we fetch a doctor?"

"I cannot risk such an enterprise," he said. "My presence here cannot be revealed."

"I can risk it," said Emilie. "Tell me the best place to moor the rowboat and I can find my way into town."

"Over my dead body," said Rutledge, gritting his teeth. "I'm fine."

McVie slid his knife back into the waistband of his breeches and approached. "You are a fortunate man," he said, looking at Zane's right forearm which had sustained a fracture. "If the bone had broken the skin, the cause would be lost."

"You're the local hero," Zane growled, "not the doctor."

"A physician would tell you same as I, Rutledge. You and your arm would be parting company."

Zane gestured toward McVie. "Keep him the hell away from me," he said to Emilie.

"We have to set that arm, Zane."

"I'll do it myself."

"You're talking like a fool."

"I'm not the one who says a balloon dropped us into the middle of the Revolution."

Emilie started to laugh. She couldn't help it. Maybe it was lack of food or the jet lag to end all jet lag. She didn't know. But whatever it was, the whole thing suddenly struck her as so absurd, so funny, that the laughter bubbled up and it wouldn't stop.

It took Zane all of about five seconds to catch the wave. He laughed until his sides hurt as much as his broken arm.

Emilie was draped over the bench, tears of mirth rolling down her cheeks, while Zane leaned against the wall and roared. McVie stood in the doorway, his expression perfectly dead-pan. Each time they looked at him they laughed all the harder.

"I'm starving," said Emilie, holding her sides. "Let's call out for a pizza."

"Great idea," Zane managed. "Think it'll get here in thirty minutes?"

"Oh no!" cried Emilie, wiping her eyes. "I left the water running in the kitchen."

"I can go you one better," said Zane. "I left the Porsche running."

Andrew watched them patiently from the doorway. He knew the words they spoke were English but the meaning behind them was impossible for him to comprehend. All this talk about por-shuh and peet-zah--what manner of world did they come from?

He glanced out the window then cleared his throat. "It grows dark soon. We should tend to business while we can."

Both Emilie and Zane grew abruptly silent as reality once again rushed in on them.

"We have to do something about your arm," Emilie said at last. "The longer we wait...."

"I am no physician," said Andrew, "but I am skilled in certain basic remedies."

"I don't have a choice, do I?" asked Zane.

No one argued with him.

In silence they filed down the winding staircase to the front room where the blue light of dusk had begun to soften the stark simplicity of their surroundings.

Emilie borrowed McVie's knife and proceeded to rip into one of the beautiful quilts. They would need lengths of fabric to serve as a sling, as well as to bind the makeshift splint to Zane's forearm.

Andrew found a sturdy branch outside which he quickly broke down to a more manageable size.

Zane watched the proceedings with detached curiosity. The whole thing was beginning to take on an almost Kafka-esque quality and he half expected the alarm to ring and wake him up from the strangest dream he'd had in his entire life.

The two men locked eyes.

"The pain might be considerable," said Andrew, taking the other man's measure.

"Do it," was all Zane said.

McVie motioned for Emilie to stand at the head of the trundle bed. "Keep his shoulders down, Mistress Emilie."

She nodded, biting her lip nervously. McVie placed one hand on Zane's wrist and another at his elbow. It was she and not Zane who cried out at the sound of bone against bone as McVie urged the broken pieces into the proper position.

Quickly he laid the splint along Zane's forearm, then instructed Emilie to bind the splint tightly in place. Zane's face was pale and his eyes were closed. A small muscle in his jaw worked furiously but that was the only sign he gave that all was not right.

"You're very good at this," she observed as McVie finished his task.

McVie nodded. "I have always been so."

They listened to the sound of Zane's rapid breathing as he dozed on the trundle bed.

"I know I should be worrying about all sorts of dreadful things," said Emilie, "but right now all I can think about is food."

Andrew started for the door. "Come with me and I'll cut some ham for you and Rutledge."

He wasn't entirely certain what he was going to do with the two travelers through time, but he did know he wasn't about to let them out of his sight.

Chapter Six

The ham was salty and tasted of woodsmoke and the rum was potent, but Emilie polished off a portion of each with gusto. Zane awoke once in considerable pain and McVie pushed the bottle toward him. Zane didn't hesitate and soon slept peacefully once again.

"The pain will ease by the morrow," said McVie, from his spot near the door.

"I hope so," said Emilie, smoothing Zane's dark hair off his forehead with a gentle touch. McVie had helped her to dress the cuts on Zane's forehead and back, and together they had used the rest of the quilt to bind his ribcage. She had thanked God that his ribs had been bruised and not broken. "I appreciate all you're doing for us, Andrew. I know this must seem more unbelievable to you than it does to us."

He tossed the quarter she'd given him into the air then caught it in his palm. "You have shown me some things that not even logic can disprove."

It was hard to see his expression clearly in the gathering darkness but Emilie thought she caught a look of concern in his eyes.

"Is something wrong? Is there something about Zane's condition that I should know about?"

So that was the way the wind blew, thought Andrew. Her concern for Rutledge went deeper than perhaps even she realized.

"Nay, madam, I have kept nothing about Rutledge's infirmities from you. It is another, more distressing, matter that concerns me."

She nodded as if she knew. "You have to leave us," she said, in that oddly-accented voice of hers. "I understand."

Andrew arched a brow in question. "That notion does not cause you alarm?"

"It doesn't thrill me," said Emilie, "but I know that you have a life of your own."
And a destiny to be met.
"I believe I can make a life for myself here."

Andrew gestured toward Rutledge, sleeping deeply on the trundle bed, his broken arm propped upon a pillow at his side.

"What of Rutledge?" he asked. "He does not strike me as a man willing to forego the world he left behind."

"Has he a choice? We're alive and we're here. The sooner we make our peace with that truth, the happier we will be."

Andrew considered his words carefully. "And what of you, madam? Do you not feel the pull of friends and loved ones left behind?"

"There's no one," she said. "Not a soul."

He wondered about the bond between her and Rutledge but he refrained from asking. She obviously had affection for the giant of a man but how deep that affection ran was beyond his knowing.

As for Rutledge, he had about him the look of a man who had laid claim to a woman. A vivid image, shockingly explicit in its attention to detail, came to life and he closed his eyes against it. The Mistress Emilie had said she and Rutledge were unwed but Andrew was worldly enough to know that meant little when the blood ran hot.

He cast a curious glance toward her as she sat by Rutledge's side. She sat stitching the plain blue fabric from the coverlet into a skirt. She had an air of industry about her and he wondered if there was any goal she could not attain if she put her mind to it. She was a woman of bountiful charms, not the least of which was a most intriguing demeanor that was at once both fierce and agreeable.

He cleared his throat. "About your manner of dress," he began. "It appears to my eyes to be most...unusual attire."

For a moment she forgot what she'd been wearing when this whole thing began and she looked down to find herself clad in a demure 18th century bodice and 20th century leggings. She quickly explained to him about the celebration and the outfit she'd intended to finish sewing while on the balloon ride to Langley Park.

Andrew gestured toward the apparel on her lower body. "Do others garb themselves in such fashion?"

"And worse!" she said, laughing at the expression on his face. "You would be scandalized if you could see the outfits, Andrew." She held aloft a cambric handkerchief she'd had tucked in her embroidered purse. "There are some women who wear as little as this."

Andrew's face flamed and he rose to his feet. "It grows dark," he announced unnecessarily. "You should sleep."

"I doubt if I'll ever sleep again," she said. "There's so much to do...so many things to think about--"

"I bid you good night, Mistress Emilie. Rest well."

"And you," she said.

With that he climbed the stairs to the lookout tower while Emilie laughed softly to herself, wondering how he would react when she told him about
Playboy
.

#

Zane awoke the next morning with the sun. His arm ached, as did his ribs, but all things considered he felt remarkably clear-headed and filled with resolve.

He climbed from the trundle bed, careful not to disturb Emilie who slept on the smaller of the two mattresses. During the night he had come to terms with the reality of their situation. Although it went against all logic, he accepted the fact that he and Emilie had somehow tumbled through a rip in the fabric of time.

However, he was not about to accept the fact that the world he'd left behind was lost to him forever. If he did that he'd be saying that his entire life up until now hadn't been worth a damn and that admission was too close to the bone for him to contemplate.

Besides, this world held little appeal. He liked everything modern life had to offer and was willing to accept the drawbacks as well as the benefits. Where was the challenge, living within boundaries that had been set by history long before he was born?

But there was one challenge on the horizon and it was probably the most important one he'd ever face.

He was going to find a way back to his own time.