Now and Forever (71 page)

"Cut that out!"

Spies abounded everywhere. They worshipped at the First Presbyterian Church; they lifted a glass to General Washington's health at Arnold's Tavern; more than one had dined at his own table.

And unless the chestnut had developed the power of speech, one was hiding in the leaves.

#

Dakota held her nose as warm equine breath gusted toward her.
Haven't you heard of dental hygiene?
And the breath was nothing compared with the thought of big yellow horse teeth poking at her ribs. Did horses bite? Except for the appendix, nature rarely gave creatures body parts they didn't need. Those teeth were probably huge for a reason and it wasn't just to eat carrots.

And that wasn't the worst of it. Unless she'd dropped down onto the Ponderosa, horses didn't wander around without riders and she'd bet her last jelly donut that this horse's rider was somewhere close by.

She lay there, scarcely breathing, listening to the sound of her heart beating in her ear...and footsteps crunching through the snow, heading straight toward her. A nervous laugh struggled to escape.

The footsteps sounded angry and male. Brimming with testosterone. She tried to focus in on those footsteps and conjure up a picture of the man responsible for them but her mind screen was still blank.

For the first time in her life, she was on her own.

#

Patrick Devane was no man's fool. These were dangerous times. A body did not hide himself in a pile of leaves unless he wished to escape notice. He cursed the fact that he'd left his pistol in his study. The Colony of New Jersey was a hotbed of infidels and opportunists and the best way to deal with any and all of them was from the right side of a weapon.

He stepped between the chestnut and the coward who lay quaking beneath a pile of brittle maple leaves.

"Show yourself, man!" His voice filled the clearing. No boy still wet behind the ears would best him, no matter the situation.

The leaves fluttered but there was no response. A wry smile twisted his lips. The sorry bastard was trembling, more likely than not. An unworthy opponent but he would see it through. He dug the toe of his riding boots beneath the leaves and nudged the coward.

"My patience grows thin," he warned, thinking of the encroaching darkness and the missing child.

He nudged harder.

"Once more and you lose the foot," came the voice from the leaf pile.

He watched, open-mouthed, as a person of indeterminate age and gender sat up in the fallen leaves and stared at him.

"Sweet Jesus!" He stepped back. His eyes darted from one indescribable part of the stranger's body to another. Black hair shorter than a newborn babe's. Round spectacles with light blue lenses. Trousers of a faded blue material. A thin shirt with the foreign-sounding words
Jurassic Park
embroidered across the breast. The stranger wore enormous silver earbobs that dangled on its shoulders, their lacy pattern looking for all the world like tracings of ice on a windowpane.

He narrowed his eyes. The breasts seemed too full to belong to a boy but not full enough to belong to a grown woman. Still he was reasonably sure the stranger was female.

"You're staring," the stranger said.

"I am," he said, not seeking to avoid the truth, "for I have not seen the likes of you in this or any other life."

Chapter Three

"Thanks a lot," Dakota said, sitting in the leaves like a toadstool. "I'm going to take that as a compliment."

"It was not meant thus."

"You don't do irony," she noted. "I'll have to remember that."

He was the kind of man who'd gone out of fashion about two hundred years ago and somehow continued to thrive in the romantic imagination of women on every continent.

Take a good look at him, Dakota. This is the stuff dreams are made of.
Tall, lean, and harboring major attitude. He wore tight, tobacco brown breeches that were tucked into high boots, an ivory-colored shirt, and a flowing black wool cape that fell from shoulders as wide as an NFL linebacker's. His dark brown hair was pulled straight back and tied in a ponytail. He should come with a warning label attached:
Danger! Foolish women proceed at your own risk.

Late eighteenth century,
she thought, heart pounding. Both the clothes and the man. And, dear God, what a man he was. She felt like thanking God for testosterone.

Unfortunately he was staring at her breasts and it was painfully clear he wasn't sure if he should be attracted or concerned.

"Stop it!" she ordered, attempting to take control of the situation as romantic conjecture swiftly gave way to reality. "You're being rude."

"Explain your meaning."

"Tell me which word you didn't understand and I will."

His jaw tightened. "Your words are not the problem, madam. Your appearance is." He stripped off the cloak and tossed it to her. "Cover yourself."

A man of few words and all of them were orders. She considered tossing the cloak back to him but death seemed too high a price to pay for the pleasure. "One size fits all," she said, pulling the cloak around her shivering body. "Wouldn't you just know it?"

 
"Madam?"

"Private joke."

Somehow he didn't look like the type who cared for jokes, private or otherwise.

"How do you call yourself?" he asked.

She'd never seen anyone bristle with menace before but darned if the guy wasn't doing exactly that.

"Who's asking?"

The look of surprise on his gorgeous face was priceless. It was obvious the man was accustomed to being obeyed. "Patrick Devane." He executed a curt bow, more a knee jerk response than a display of polite behavior. "And I am addressing--?"

Great posture,
she thought as he straightened. You didn't often see posture like that on anything but a department store mannequin. "Dakota Wylie."

His frown deepened. "What manner of name is that?"

"What manner of question is that?' she parried, cursing herself for not inventing a nice normal name like Mary or Sarah. "It's a...family name."

He nodded. "Stand up, madam."

"I don't think so."

"I am not a patient man."

"So I've gathered." She rubbed her hip. "Those boots of yours are lethal weapons."

"Stand," he repeated, "or I will not be held responsible for my actions."

His hands were huge. Big, workman's hands at odds with his elegant dress and carriage. She wondered how those hands would feel against the bare skin of her back...or wrapped around her throat.

"Now, madam!" he roared.

So much for fantasy. "I can't."

He moved toward her, those big hands clenched into fists.

He means business, Dakota.
She'd better curb her tongue or he'd curb it for her permanently. This wasn't the nineties. She glanced at his attire. At least not the 1990s. Historically, smart-mouthed women earned themselves a one-way ticket to oblivion and she wasn't about to let that happen. Not with Andrew and Shannon's destiny at stake.

"M-my ankle," she said, with a pathetic attempt at female vulnerability. She wondered if she should bat her eyelashes at him then thought better of it. She might have traveled through time but she still had her scruples. "I-I fear I've sprained it."

#

A ruse
, Patrick thought,
and a most unconvincing one
. This odd-looking female must take him for a fool.

"And how did you sprain your ankle, madam?" He wondered if she concealed a weapon in the pile of leaves in which she sat. Surely she did not intend to defend herself using only her wits.

Still there was something about her countenance that made him wonder if she did not intend exactly that. She was no coy miss, deferring to a man for the very air she breathed. Both wit and intelligence were evident in the dark eyes that dominated her pale moon of a face. Her skin was smooth and unblemished, an unusual sight in a woman beyond childhood. No scars from smallpox. No ruddy cheeks or broken veins from hours spent tending a hearth. Perhaps with a more womanly toilette she would appeal to a man but Patrick found himself unmoved by the dimple that appeared in her left cheek as she offered up an uncertain smile.

"I--I fell from a tree."

He said nothing. Her smile faltered then faded to memory.

"The maple tree," she said, pointing.

"And why is it you were in the maple tree?" he asked, not knowing why it was he chose to indulge this particular flight of imaginative fancy. The women of his acquaintance did not make a habit of climbing trees.

"A bear," she said, then nodded as if pleased by her words. "I feared for my safety."

He took stock of the immediate vicinity. Only human footprints were visible in the thin crust of yesterday's snow. "I see no tracks."

"Well, I didn't actually
see
a bear. I heard one."

"And you sought shelter in the maple tree."

"Exactly." Her smile reappeared. Her teeth were remarkably white and even. He wondered where she had purchased them. "Better safe than sorry."

"And where is the bear now?"

"Beats me."

"Madam?"

"I don't know where the bear is."

"Mayhap there was no bear."

"Look," she said, dark eyes flashing with sudden anger, "if you're going to do something awful, then just do it. The suspense is killing me. If falling from a tree is a capital offense around here, then do what you have to and get it over with." She struggled to her feet then, with a yelp, sat back down again. "I think it's broken."

He bent down next to her. "Show me."

"You don't believe me?"

"I do not believe you."

She pulled up the leg of her peculiar garment and exposed a badly swollen ankle. "Do you believe me now?"

"The evidence seems irrefutable." In truth her action surprised him. Displaying her limbs to all and sundry as if doing so were an everyday occurrence. Another woman would have swooned at the thought. Had the woman no modesty?

Indeed, it was a most pleasing ankle and that surprised him most of all. There was little else about her person that spoke of femininity.

"Do you think it's broken?" she asked, her tone subdued.

"I cannot tell through observation alone."

She pulled up the other leg of her garment. "Look at the difference."

He did. The uninjured ankle was delicate, almost fragile. The skin was pale and unblemished and smooth and a most unexpected feeling heated his blood. Leaning forward, he encircled the uninjured ankle with his hand then attempted the same with the other.

A hiss of pain issued forth.

"I meant no harm, madam."

"I know," she said. Nothing more than that. Again he was struck by the differences between this stranger and other women of his acquaintance.

"A nasty sprain," he said at last, rocking back upon his heels. "One that will require attention."

She scowled at him. "Why don't you just climb on your horse and get lost? I was doing fine before you showed up."

"You have an uncommon sharp tongue, madam, for one in so precarious a position." A plain woman with the fiery spirit of a beauty and the speech patterns of a learned man. It was a combination Patrick did not happen upon every day of the week. He was intrigued despite himself.

"It will be dark in a matter of minutes," he stated. "You will not make it through the night out here."

"I have no intention of staying here all night," she retorted.

"And where is it you intend to stay?"

She pointed across the clearing in the direction of his house. "I plan to stay with friends. They're expecting me."