Now and Forever (78 page)

Abigail never talked about it again with anybody.

Abigail wasn't like the others. Mama had known that and she'd left. Papa knew it, as well, and that was why he was sending her far away to school. Other boys and girls laughed and played and had parents who loved them more than anything. There had to be a reason why she didn't.

She threw off the covers and shivered as a cold draft ruffled the hem of her nightdress. When she'd seen that bright red ball dancing over the tops of the trees she'd been possessed of a feeling that something wonderful was right around the corner, something so splendid and unexpected that all the sad things that had come before it would be forgotten.

But then she'd found Dakota in the maple tree and thoughts of the big red ball had been pushed aside by silly talk of monsters and fairy godmothers.

She wrapped her arms about her knees and sighed. She wasn't entirely sure about monsters, but she knew fairy godmothers were only in stories. If fairy godmothers really existed, she wouldn't be forced to leave her home and everything she loved in order to go to some dreadful school in faraway Boston. If fairy godmothers really existed, Mama would still live there in the big white house and Papa would be happy again and Abigail wouldn't be sitting there in the darkness, feeling cold and hungry and lonely.

Gently she plucked Lucy from under the covers and cradled the battered rag doll against her chest. The moon rode high in the sky and she guessed it must be near to midnight. Surely Papa and Dakota had finished talking by now and it would be safe to sneak down the back stairs to the kitchen.

She tiptoed across the room, making sure to avoid the squeaky floorboards near the rocking chair. Easing open the door she stepped into the hallway. There wasn't a sound to be heard. If she was very quiet and very careful, she could sneak downstairs, find some bread or stew to fill her belly, then be back in her bed before anyone knew she was missing.

She crept past Papa's room then was about to slip past Dakota's when a sound caught her attention. She held her breath and listened.
Oh, Lucy! She's crying.
Abigail could scarcely believe her ears. Grown people didn't cry. Sometimes their eyes got all watery but they never cried the way she did when she was sad.

Her heart ached as if someone had grabbed it with a giant fist.
She's lonely,
Abigail thought then wondered how it was she could know such a thing about a stranger. The woman missed her mother same as Abigail did and was afraid she would never see her again.
Don't be sad,
Abigail thought. Dakota's mother loved her and held her close to her heart and one day they would be together again--something Abigail knew would never, ever happen for her.

"Oh, Mama," she whispered, her lips pressed against the soft top of Lucy's head. "I miss you so."

#

Patrick stepped deeper into the shadows at the top of the stairs.

Damn Susannah's cheating soul. The child deserved better than either one of them had been able to provide. How he wished Abigail had a loving mother by her side to comfort and protect her when he was no longer around.

He told himself it was for the best as the child wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her nightdress. Sending her away was the only solution. There was nothing for her here but loneliness and pain and the possibility of danger. To keep her there with him was to do her a disservice. The child was the only true innocent in the situation and he prayed the good sisters of the Sacred Heart would keep her that way.

Hardening his heart once again, he moved toward her.

"Abigail."

She started in surprise, her grey eyes wide and uncertainty in her tiny face.

"To bed, Abigail," he said, pushing away the memory of how she'd lain in his arms as a newborn. So deeply wanted. So well loved.

"Papa," she whispered, "the lady is crying."

He started to say he thought that prospect highly unlikely but then, in the brittle silence of his house, he heard the sound of a woman's tears. He found it difficult to imagine Mistress Dakota with her sharp tongue and peculiar ways indulging in something as soft and vulnerable as tears.

"To bed," he repeated, placing a hand on her shoulder. "The hour is late."

"She's sad," the child said softly. "She misses her mother."

Her words startled him. "You and Mistress Dakota have talked of such things?"

Abigail shook her head.

"Then how is it you know this?"

Her brows slid together into a knot over the bridge of her upturned nose. He waited as she struggled to find the words to explain her flight of imaginative fancy.

"She comes from far away," Abigail said at last, sounding suddenly far older than her half dozen years. "And she can never go back."

A changeling,
he thought. Unlike anyone he had ever known. Certainly nothing like himself.

She shivered and he noticed her feet were bare. "To bed with you," he said, his voice gruff with unspoken emotion. "You cannot travel to Boston if you are sick."

"Good," she said, lifting her chin in defiance.

Did she have to look at him like that, as if he were sentencing her to a life of indentured servitude? "I was sent to school at your age, Abigail. It is a good thing, not a punishment."

Her grey eyes flashed. "Mama wouldn't have sent me to Boston."

He felt his temper rise. "Your mother is not here, Abigail."

"I hate you!" Abigail kicked his ankle with her small, bare foot. "I wish I had run away with Mama and left you here alone."

He watched her run down the hall to her room and wondered if that was those were the last words she would speak to him.

Turning, he headed for the stairs and the other life that awaited him miles away from this house of pain.

#

Dakota's breath caught in her throat at the sound of his retreating footsteps.

She leaned back against the door and closed her eyes, waiting for her heartbeat to return to normal. "Ridiculous," she said aloud, her voice breaking the quiet of her room. As if it mattered, what he thought of her.

When she'd first heard Devane and Abigail whispering in the hallway, she'd been too caught up in her own woes to pay much attention. But that was before she realized they were talking about her.

Scarcely breathing, she'd pressed her ear to the closed door and tried to make out their words. The sounds were hushed, almost inaudible, but she caught enough of it to know that Devane was a hard-hearted bastard and that one day Abigail would thank her lucky stars that she had lived with him for only six years.

She'd had a good mind to fling open the door and tell him that, too. The man needed to have his butt recalibrated and she was in the mood to do it for him. At least then she'd be doing something, not staying cooped up in a strange room, crying from fatigue and frustration.

Her fingers had curled around the latch and she had been about to swing open the door and surprise the living hell out of him when Abigail's clear, sweet voice floated through the heavy wood.

She could still hear the words.
She's sad...she misses her mother.

A lovely sentiment but it wasn't at all true. She hadn't been gone twenty-four hours. Ginny's last "You've gained weight and you're still single" remark was still fresh in her mind. Sometimes a week or two went by when she didn't talk to Ginny at all and she enjoyed every day of it.

No, the kid was wrong. Right now the only things she missed were indoor plumbing, Letterman, and possibly her sofa bed with the fluky spring and the tendency to open itself up without human assistance.

She was a firm believer in destiny, confident that nothing in life happened without a reason, but darned if she could figure this one out. No one had ever accused her of being a closet Mary Poppins. And, even if she was dying to be someone's nanny, the kid was being shipped up to Boston tomorrow so she'd end up being unemployed in two centuries without even trying. That alone could win her a spot on
Nightline
when she got back to where she belonged.

She comes from far away and she can't ever go back.

Dakota shivered and wrapped her arms across her chest. Maybe Abigail was right, she thought as she moved away from the door. Maybe the plain little girl with the big grey eyes had zeroed in on the truth Dakota had wanted to avoid.

Suddenly it seemed so clear to her that it took her breath away.

The spider plant in her bathroom would probably die from neglect. Her mail would pile up and everybody would know she didn't just glance at the
National Enquirer
in line at the supermarket, she actually subscribed. Her landlord would call the sheriff to break down her door and instead of her dead body propped up in a chair with a container of Haagen Dazs clutched in her rigor-mortised hand, they'd find a couple of centuries' worth of dust balls.

Tears welled and she didn't bother to blink them back. Just because Andrew had been able to get home again didn't mean she'd be that lucky. The tears flowed more freely and she made one attempt to stem the tide, then realized it made no difference at all. There was no one there to see her. No one to give a damn if she never watched the home shopping channel again or ate a Big Mac or sat with her family over Thanksgiving dinner and explained why she still wasn't married.

She used to believe she thrived on adventure, that she'd be the first to leap aboard a UFO and fly off to parts unknown. "Footloose and fancy-free," she'd called herself. Ready to kick over the traces of her everyday life at a moment's notice.

Instead of sniveling alone in her bedroom, she should be downstairs searching for a map, a newspaper, anything that would help her pinpoint her location. Once she figured out exactly where she was, how hard could it be to find Andrew and Shannon?

Andrew and Shannon were the key to everything. This was their destiny, after all, not hers. As close as she could tell, her only purpose had been to return Abigail to her father. Beyond that, she was as useful as a VCR in a world without television. If she could find Andrew and Shannon, she could find the balloon that had brought them there and once she found that balloon, she'd be halfway home.

So what're you waiting for, Wylie?
There was no Letterman to keep people up late. They went to bed early and they stayed there, mainly because there was nowhere else to go.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and straightened her spine. Why wait for tomorrow and have to worry about dodging Devane? He was probably tucked away in bed like a good little dictator. This was the perfect time to do some sleuthing.

It was at least seven hours until dawn. You didn't have to be a budding Nancy Drew to be able to get the goods on someone in that amount of time.

Chapter Eight

They met in the shadows behind Arnold's Tavern in Morristown, shielded from the snow and cold by naught save the bare branches of dormant oaks and maples.

"Victory is at hand," said the youngest of the three, "but at what cost? Six lives lost and maybe more and now our two best are at the mercy of the British."

"The cause is all," said the peacemaker of the trio. "'Twas understood by each before the campaign was engaged. Sacrifice is both honorable and necessary."

Their words reached Patrick through the dark cloud of despair that had enveloped him since learning Blakelee and Rutledge had been taken prisoner by the British. They had supped at the White Horse Tavern and made to leave the embroidered blanket with the tavern owner when a pair of British soldiers had arrested them on charges unspecified. And they wondered how it was the Americans fought so hard for their rights . . .

"Aye," the peacemaker was saying, "but the goal remains elusive.

"Always the goal," said the youngest. "What of the cause which brings us here."

"We have no time for philosophy," Patrick said over the howling of the wind. "We will meet again tomorrow, for there is still much to do."

He turned to leave but the peacemaker stopped him. "There is another matter. A most peculiar sighting to the west."

He thought of the towering cloud formation he'd noted upon leaving Mrs. Whitton's home. "The storm," he said, dismissing the man's words. "'Tis nothing but a strange new pattern."

"Not the clouds," the man persisted. "Something far more strange than that."