The Mammoth Book of Time Travel Romance (15 page)

Guilt swamped her. The other night all she had wanted to do was get away from the place, and it hadn’t occurred to her that the man might need her help, that she was running from an injured man and not a ghost.

“Damn it,” she muttered to herself, and pressed down hard on the accelerator.

He was coming closer. She heard him throwing aside hay and tools and empty crates, anything in his way. Helen reached through the gap in the wall, fingers like claws in the earth, and pulled herself through. A moment later she was on her feet and running towards the homestead. There were people there. She could get help. Someone would help her.

The water had receded some more, leaving a line of newly formed crusts over the mud around the edge of the moat. It was still too deep for Claire to wade across despite her gumboots, but she could see the bottom now and from the feel of the sun scorching her back, it wouldn’t be long before it had dried up enough.

She shaded her eyes and squinted up the slope towards the homestead. The barns and other buildings that must once have encircled the main house were long gone, either rotted into the mud or dismantled before the water covered them. In daylight the homestead had lost its poignancy and looked forlorn, with one wall leaning dangerously, the boards buckled and warped, and the window frames empty dark squares staring inwards.

“Hello!”

The word seemed to stop, as if it came up against something solid. No echo, no carry. She called again. There was still no real sense that anyone who might be in the structure would be able to hear her, or that she could hear them. Especially if they were injured and unable to answer loudly.

She should have gone back for Merv. But she admitted that she wasn’t sure enough to risk making a fool of herself – the amnesiac who imagined ghostly voices. Claire would just love for that rumour to begin to circulate.

Cautiously she stepped closer, her gumboots sinking into the mud with an evil squelching sound. The heat of the sun stung her skin and perspiration dripped down her back. Everything was so still, the air wavering like steam from a kettle, but it was an uncomfortable tranquillity. And the sense of being watched was back, and with it a feeling of menace.

Ignoring her unease, Claire focused her gaze on the ground leading up to the homestead. No footprints that she could see, nothing to show that anyone had ever walked or crawled up there. Not even the little dog.

And yet they must have. She had proof in the photo.

“Hello! Are you all right?”

Again that odd sense that her voice had not carried as far as it should have.

Claire began to make her way around the edge of the moat, grimacing as her boots sank in the sucking mud. Finally she found a shallow causeway that looked crossable. Slowly, gingerly, she walked out into the warm water, feeling her gumboots begin to fill, but she plodded on. When one of her boots sank into the mud and stuck fast, she cursed, tugging at it and balancing on her other leg. All of a sudden it came free with a horrible sucking sound, and she lost her balance, staggering forwards. Before she could stop herself she fell, landing on the ground on the other side of the moat.

But where she expected to land on rock-hard earth her hands touched grass. Soft, sweet, green grass.

She thought she must have passed out.

Slowly she lifted her gaze from the grass – so green it hurt her eyes – and up the slope that was stretching in front of her. There was a long sweep of garden. An orchard to her left and borders of perennials. Lavender grew around her in big untrimmed shrubs, the spikes heavy with bees.

Horses stood in a railed yard, their tails swishing at the flies, and a couple of men were unloading a wagon, while a girl with a white apron was carrying a bucket awkwardly towards the rear of the house.

Still stunned, lying frozen upon the grass, Claire stared up at the homestead. A moment ago it had been a ruin but now curtains fluttered from the open windows and smoke rose from the chimneys and a door banged shut as someone strode across the verandah.

Claire shook her head. No. It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t true.

A man was striding down the front steps. He was dark haired and wearing a brown jacket, riding breeches and boots. He moved with such an air of authority that Claire knew who it was without seeing his face.

Niall McEwen.

A moment ago she had been too frozen to move, but now she dug her fingers harder into the soft green grass beneath her and pushed herself up. The scent of the lavender, the sounds of life about her, the utter impossibility of it all, made her head spin as if she were drunk. Claire swayed, trying to catch her breath, trying to keep her grip on the shifting reality about her, as she stood waist deep in lavender.

Just as Niall McEwen turned his head in her direction.

His body went rigid. His chin lifted. He quickened his step. In a moment he’d be running.

Terror ripped through her.

She stumbled backwards. Water washed over the heels of her boots and, as they sank a little into the mud of the causeway, the scene in front of her faded. Like a photo that has been overexposed. Niall was still moving towards her but there was no sound and she knew he would never reach her. She backed away another step and into the hole that had claimed her boot previously, toppling into a pool of water. Her head went under.

Helen!
The voice was in her head, a cry of anguish and need. When she surfaced and pulled herself out on to the mud, she was spluttering and choking. Her wet hair hung in her eyes and she pushed it away with a trembling hand and turned back towards the house.

It stood drunkenly above her, a ruin baking in the sun. No garden, no horses and certainly no Niall McEwen. Nothing but bare ground and warped timbers and a harsh blue sky.

He was gaining on her. She tried to scream but the sound was breathless and barely louder than the other night noises. She ran to the side, towards the garden, where flower stalks rose starkly. She’d insisted on tidying them herself and now she would never finish.

He reached for her arm but at the same moment Moppet ran between his feet and tripped him. The dog yelped, the man cursed and Helen ran on. Before her was the lily pond. Would he follow her in? He couldn’t swim, she knew that much. It was one of the only weaknesses he’d admitted to her. He was afraid of water.

Perhaps she could save herself after all?

By the time Claire had showered and changed daylight was fading. Sunset was a glorious crimson and orange affair, and Claire sat on her verandah and watched it, a glass of cooled wine in her hand, the dog at her feet.

He had forgiven her for shutting him up in her house earlier and now seemed content to rest by her side, following her with his eyes whenever she moved, clearly intent on attaching himself to her.

Her own eyes continually drifted to the old homestead, as if she expected any moment it might transform itself. She had no explanation for what had happened. If it was a hallucination, it was a pretty good one, but she knew it wasn’t a dream. She wanted to discuss it logically, but who would listen to her? Gabe? He might, or he might just ring for the doctor.

Perhaps the most disturbing part of it had been the sense of familiarity. Her daydream had already shown her what to expect and when she stood in the lavender it had not seemed foreign at all. And he had not seemed a stranger.

But still her rational mind argued, needing proof.

Claire got up abruptly and hurried out to the door, the dog trotting along behind her. She came back with the box from the museum and set it down on the kitchen table, then poured herself another glass of crisp white wine.

A quick search found mostly junk. There was a photo album, however, and she eased it out and opened it up, expecting great things. She found disappointment. The first photo had been eaten away by mildew, the faces unrecognizable. The next page was worse. Claire turned another page and then another, but it was all the same. The damage to the album had been extensive and irreversible. Even a master restorer could do nothing with this mess, there was simply nothing to restore.

Claire had come to the end of the album. The last photo. And it was undamaged. She stared down at it. A man in a high white collar, his handsome face stern and still, a lock of dark hair falling over his brow. His gaze was intense but it was also faintly amused, as if he knew the effect he had on those around him – especially women.

Claire shivered.

It was him. The man she’d seen.

Niall McEwen was alive. He lived in a place that could be reached through a moat of water that surrounded the homestead. He existed in the past, but he also existed in the here and now, and only Claire knew it.

Only Claire could reach him.

But that was madness, impossible! Wasn’t it?

There was only one way to prove it. She had to go back there and do what she’d done earlier. She had to cross the causeway and step on to the island where the homestead was. She had to go and face her fears.

The knock on her door almost gave her a heart attack.

Gabe’s smile faded when he saw her face. “What’s happened?”

Claire knew she could tell him. She could burden him with everything and he would help her, look after her, as he had before. Or she could solve her problems herself and come to him as an equal partner.

“I had a headache. It’s gone now.”

He appeared to accept her word.

“I didn’t expect to see you tonight, Gabe.”

By now he’d taken in the box from the museum and the photo album. She closed it before he could see Niall McEwen, some sense of self-preservation driving her.

“You were talking about Helen,” he said. “I thought you might like to see the picture of her that belonged to my grandfather.”

“Oh. Yes, thank you.” She found a glass and poured him some of her white wine. “How did he come by Helen’s photo anyway?”

It was just idle conversation but Gabe seemed to find the question awkward. “Belonged to an uncle of his, a cousin of Niall McEwen’s who worked as Niall’s foreman. He was fond of Helen, and when she vanished . . .” He shrugged. “He kept the photo.”

They sat down in the lounge and Claire tucked her feet up under herself. She remembered how, after she had left hospital, she always sat so straight and formally, feet together on the floor, hands clasped in her lap. Gabe had teased her, gently, and gradually she had learned to relax.

She realized Gabe was talking about his grandfather again.

“He believed there were places in the world where the veil between our time and the past was thinner, more able to be breached. The valley was one of them, according to him.”

Claire tried not to let him see how much his words had affected her. Thankfully the room was dimly lit with candles, her preferred form of lighting.

“Why did he think that?”

“He was told things and he saw things himself, things he shouldn’t have been able to see. His belief was that the past and the present ran at different speeds. For instance, whereas a hundred years might have gone by here in the present, only a day might have gone by in the past.”

Claire took a gulp of her wine, her fingers trembling.

“You haven’t been down there again, have you, Claire? To the homestead?” And, when she didn’t answer, he added, “It’s not safe. Promise me you won’t go alone.”

“You worry too much about me, Gabe. You shouldn’t have to worry about me. I feel as if I’ve become a weight around your neck.”

He stood up and crossed to her, then took her wine glass from her hand and set it down. She looked up at him.

“Claire, I’ve been in love with you since I first saw you. I wanted to wait until you were . . . better, so that you could be sure about your future, but now I think I’ve waited too long.”

She went into his arms. It seemed foolish to deny herself any longer. Gabe’s mouth closed on hers. His body felt familiar against hers, but only because this was Gabe. And he showed her how he felt with every touch, every caress, every stroke. For the first time in her life Claire knew what it was to be with the man she loved, and who loved her.

The water was chill against her thighs as she waded deeper. Her skirts dragged about her and she was gasping for air. He stood on the bank, watching her, his face full of fury.

For a moment she thought it would be all right. She almost believed she was safe. But then he stepped down into the pond, the water rising over his boots and up his legs, and she knew.

Stumbling, trying to hurry, she moved towards the far bank. Her foot slipped and she went under. The murky water closed over her head, and suddenly everything was quiet. Like a church. She couldn’t breathe, her lungs were bursting, but she couldn’t seem to find the surface.

The next moment she rose up from the water, gasping and spluttering, crying out. But when she opened her eyes she was somewhere else. He was gone, the valley was gone, and when she turned back to the homestead, it was nothing more than a derelict ruin.

Claire opened her eyes, confused. She’d fallen asleep in Gabe’s arms, content and happy. Now the sound of the dog barking was sharp and clear in the night, and for a moment she felt as if it was all still a dream. That she was Helen, running for her life, coming through Gabe’s grandfather’s thin veil in time.