Wrong Face in the Mirror: A Time Travel Romance (Medicine Stick Series) (8 page)

Alistair Redhawk was feeling mighty uneasy by the time he left Hart in her apartment, stepping out into a cold wind of the kind that signaled an abrupt change of weather in western Oklahoma.

A norther had blown in, reducing the temperature from summer-warm to winter-cold in the couple of hours he’d been with his wife. He dashed for the car, wishing he’d brought a coat where earlier in the day had been shirt-sleeve weather.

Once out of the biting wind, he rested his face against the steering wheel and considered with a sick heart the problem of Hart Benson Redhawk. She stirred all his protective instincts behaving as she did like a confused little chick who couldn’t find its mother.

She did act differently than she had when they first met. Then she’d been lively, confidently sexual, meeting his own over-sized personality as an equal. But the idea that this Hart wasn’t his Hart was ridiculous. Something had happened to her that had left her temporarily frightened and mixed up. Most likely a head injury, he thought.
She would get better and she would remember their love. He had only to give her time.

A radio call of an accident on one of the country roads left him no time to consider his personal worries. Turning on his lights, he set the siren to shrieking as he rushed out of town to where a local teen whom he’d known since he was an infant was trapped inside an overturned pickup truck.

Hart avoided looking at herself in the mirror as she brushed her teeth and got into her night
shirt even as the early dark and cold air began to penetrate her apartment. She would settle down by the gas heat of the fireplace and watch her television or read and relax until she couldn’t stay awake.

Winter was coming, it seemed as though they’d skipped autumn, and much as she’d disliked the extreme heat, she dreaded the closed-in season with its gloomy haze of long nights and more time spent indoors. When she was a child, this would have been cotton pulling season and school would have let out for six weeks or so while everybody got in the crop.

It was hard work, but a joyful time too, the one season of the year when everybody had a bit of money and the smell of cotton burrs burning at the local gin lay heavy in the air and Saturday afternoons were the time when all the country people came to town. When she was older, she’d worked at the store with its seasonal buzz as everybody did their shopping for the year, buying clothes and household supplies.

Everybody had seemed light-hearted and friendly, they’d shared each other’s
happiness. And in a bad year, when it had failed to rain or hail had knocked out a crop, they had shared worries and sorrow and the Millers had extended what credit they could for necessities.

She missed that sense of community, something that didn’t seem to exist today. Only a few farmers grew cotton now and their farms were huge. Their failures might affect the rest of the community but the average resident remained unaware of that significance.

People were no longer interconnected in the way they had been in the late ‘40s. So many things had changed.

She felt lost and alone in this  world where she didn’t belong and with sudden harshness wished she could go back and be the Stacia who had lived in Medicine Stick before it was flooded.

She went to bed late only after she’d drowsed off several times on her sofa, hoping that she’d be able to go to sleep without that early morning wakening that left her sweating with fears, her brain tumbling with negative scenarios.

Caught in a nightmare where a shadowy monster threatened her little sister and she was so frozen in place with fear
so she  couldn’t reach out to help the small Helen, who looked to be  only three or four and kept screaming, ‘Stacia! Stacia!,’ she awakened to a loud sound of tumbling furniture from downstairs.

No mouse makes that much noise
. The clashing, clattering noise continued as though one item sent another falling until a whole set had dominoed on the hardwood floor. Still half-asleep Hart stumbled from her bed, through the living room and to the door that led to the stairs.

Operating on automatic, her rational mind still not enough awake to urge caution, she went to the top of the stairs and started down.

But when she was halfway down something clicked on and she realized she was being extremely foolish. Turning around quietly in her bare feet, the nightshirt floating around her, she heard a voice whisper from below. “Stacia? Is that you?”

Her heart started to pound. Almost she recognized that voice, that
hoarse voice calling to her. Something about it rippled in her being like fear. Quickly she raced upstairs, closed the door behind her and locked it.

Then, instead of doing something sensible like calling the sheriff or even the Mountainside constables, she crawled into bed and buried herself under the covers. What could she tell them? That she was being haunted by a ghost from the past?

No repeat came of the clamorous noise from downstairs and she lay, stiffly awake for most of the night, only falling asleep when a cloudy gray dawn began to enter the world.

After breakfast she felt a great reluctance to go out her own door, but managed to eventually get up enough courage to open the door and
tiptoe down the stairs. The evidence of her visitor from the night before was left in a number of overturned chairs and a small table lying on its side. Dishes lay broken into pieces on the hard floor.

The door, however, was locked and she had to unlatch it to get outside.

It seemed like it would be easier to explain over the phone than in person so she gave the sheriff a call once she was at work, told him what she’d heard, including the fact that someone had called out for Stacia from the darkness below her stairs.

“Don’t go back there until I’ve had a chance to check out the place,” Alistair said grimly.

“But you can’t get in. It’s locked and I have the key.”

“I’ll manage,” he said. Then he asked her what time she usually got home and said he’d be waiting there when she arrived.

The day passed slowly and several times she came close to falling asleep on her feet. Mr. Jeffers, her most dependable customer among the prisoners, asked if she was feeling well and she smiled and said, “Just didn’t sleep well last night.”

He nodded as though he understood, then went back to hunch over the latest Stephen King novel he was reading.

Hart, who had dipped into
Salem’s Lot
, thought she didn’t need to read scary stories because her own life contained enough spooky stuff. All day that almost familiar voice whispering her name had replayed in her mind, but still she couldn’t think of who it was and when she’d encountered it before.

By the time she drove
into Mountainside’s brief downtown to her home, the day was already darkening with fat gray clouds that would have the local farmers hoping for rain and when she stepped out to where Alistair, clad in a heavy coat, waited in the doorway for her, she felt a continued sinking of spirits that had been low all day.

He was taking this seriously. It wasn’t something that had only happened in her imagination.

He greeted her with a nod, pushed open the door and followed her as she wove the way through the contents of the main floor, avoiding the area of recently tumbled furniture and dishes.

“Pack what you need,” he said. “You’re spending the night at your brother’s. It’s not safe here.”

She glanced over her shoulder as she kept going. “No,” she said with a dry mouth. “Not Tommy’s. Not right now.”

He didn’t ask for an explanation. “Then you can bunk out at my place for a few days while we figure out what’s going on.”

She didn’t look around this time. “I couldn’t do that,” she said in a tight little voice she didn’t recognize as her own.

“Look, we found footprints and fingerprints enough in the dust of this place, though so far no IDs on the prints. But somebody got in here last night and that somebody had a key.
They could come back tonight.”

She led the way into her apartment, feeling safer once the door closed behind them. “Who could have a key?”

“Most anybody. Cully down at Pizza Plus said Mrs. Harris’ keys hung on a hook back in the kitchen. It wouldn’t have been a big deal to take them somewhere and make copies. I’ve got a locksmith coming out to change the locks, but he can’t get there ‘til tomorrow.”

She drew in a deep breath. She couldn’t face staying here tonight with no sense of the protection of a locked door, no matter how inadequate. “I don’t want to inconvenience you,” she said with prim courtesy.

“It’ll be a lot easier having you at my place then having to stand guard outside all night.”

She managed at least a semblance of a gri
n and went to pack a few things in a small bag and was quickly ready to go with him. “I think I’ll get a dog,” she said.

“A large one,” he agreed.

They left her car at the constables’ office and drove out to his ranch house together. “What’s the deal with you not staying with Tommy?” he asked. “You two have a row?”

“Not exactly.” She was hesitant to give him the details, feeling as though it was disloyal to talk about kin behind their backs. “Things are just a little uncomfortable.”

“Asked for more money,” he concluded in a dry voice.

He did claim to be Hart Benson’s husband and would know details of her life, details not available to her. “Not exactly,” she said again. “It was Nikki.”

“Same old, same old.”

“I’ve given them money before?”

“You’re practically their own personal bank. Look, Hart, the whole town knows your brother is a good enough guy, but he has his problems. So did your dad. It’s the women in your family that have the character. Why did you think your grandmother tied up the money she left you the way she did?”

“I don’t know anything about that
.”

“Well, take it from me, Tommy and Nikki spend more of the income available to you than you do.”

If it had been possible for her mood to have dropped any lower, it would have done so. It wasn’t a matter of money; that wasn’t real to her anyway and now that she had her apartment, her car and television set, what else did she need? But there didn’t seem to be anybody to love and trust, anybody that belonged to her.

Maybe Alistair Redhawk who seemed well acquainted with her financial affairs had only married her for the money.
Quickly she dismissed the thought as unjustified. “I imagine somebody just broke in thinking some of Mrs. Harris’ things were there for the taking,” she suggested.

“Always possible. Some of that old stuff can be valuable to collectors.”

“But you don’t believe that? You think it has something to do with me?”

He touched the brim of his hat thoughtfully. “Some strange things are going on, Hart. I just didn’t feel good about you staying there tonight.”

“Intuition?” she asked with a smile.

He grunted. “Call it a hunch. I’ll feel better to have you where I can see you.”

She had to admit she felt secure being near him. There was something big and safe and comfortable about Alistair Redhawk’s presence.

She had no memories of ever being at his home, but he’d just told her they were getting close when he suddenly broke more news to her. “Helen’s daughter and granddaughter are flying out tomorrow. They want
to find out more about the death at Medicine Stick. They seem to think the body is that of their aunt.”

“My Helen’s daughter?” Hart said wonderingly. “Helen Larkin?”

“Her name was Johnson after she married. She called herself Helen Larkin Johnson.”

“She didn’t marry Arlin Johnson?” she asking, laughing a little at the idea. “Why she never had a good word for that boy. And he was always tagging after her, playing tricks on her and being a general nuisance.”

“I believe they referred to her as Mrs. A. J. Johnson,” he said.

“That’s be Arlin. Arlin Jack Johnson, named for his grandpa.” She sat, contemplating the idea of her little sister as anybody’s wife and barely noticed that he was looking at her in a kind of funny way.

The evening was bittersweet, taking him back to the few precious days when they were first married if he let himself forget that his Hart was out of her mind and only accepted that she was married to him because people told her so.

They had hearty hot soup, defrosted from the freezer where he kept specially prepared emergency meals, thick slices of buttered bread from a Wichita bakery, salad from a bag and peach cobbler with ice cream for dessert. Alistair was no more than a middle-grade cook, but he knew where to find the best food in the county.

Hart only nibbled at her cobbler while he had a second helping and finally pushed his bowl aside. “Feels like winter outside,” she said with a shiver.

“Yeah,” he agreed, “Usually the first blue norther moves in on rodeo weekend early in the month so this is a little overdue since it’s nearly October.”

Instinctively both of them avoided the subject of the intrusion into the antique shop or the disconcerting remarks she’d made earlier about ‘her’ sister. He knew very well that Hart had no sisters. Her half-brother was her only sibling. But she had not retracted the statement and had been extra quiet so far as though a whole lot was processing through her brain.

He went into the living room to light the wood in the fireplace and she followed him, settling into a big recliner. “I like your house,” she said. “It feels welcoming.”

He avoided saying that for a little while it had been her home as well. “My parents built it and gave it to me when they decided to move to Florida.”

She looked up in surprise. “Somehow I thought they were deceased.”

“Mom and Dad? Not hardly. But Mom didn’t grow up around here, she and Dad met at college. And she finally said she’d had enough of Oklahoma winds and wanted to live near her sisters. Dad gave in very reluctantly, but I think Lakeland’s warm winters are good for his arthritis and he’s taken up playing golf. They come back for long visits though, say it’s their duty to disturb my peace now and then.”

“Lakeland?”

“Over between Orlando and Tampa. Nice place.”

“Does she . . .I mean, do I know them?”

He shook his head. “They were planning to come back to meet you, but then things kind of went sour.”

“You didn’t let them know about the false accusations and you’re being put in jail?”

He shook his head. “No need to upset them. I figured it would work out.” A huge understatement, of course, but in that period he’d been more worried about the whereabouts and safety of his wife than keeping his parents informed. Their peace hadn’t needed disturbing, especially when neither one was entirely well.

“Do you want a divorce, Alistair?” she asked, surprising him. “I mean, you must want to get on with your life.”

“Let’s worry about that, honey, when we get this mess straightened out.” Surprisingly the thought was a painful one, his fierce anger toward her erased and changed into something protective. Something was very wrong with her and as long as they were legally married he had a right to be  involved in her life. Somewhere deep down inside him, he refused to touch the hope that if she were well again she would remember that she loved him.

It was a common event, of course, for the sheriff of even a low-population largely rural county to be summoned in the middle of the night so when his alert went off, he quickly made contact to determine the state of the emergency—fire in Mountainside—dressed hastily and ran into Hart in the hallway outside his room.

“I heard sounds,” she mumbled, sleepily rubbing her eyes. “
Is something wrong?”

“A sheriff’s work is never done,” he evaded. “Get back to bed. I’ll lock the door behind me.”

He saw no point in telling her right now that the building on fire in Mountainside was that which housed her own apartment, but ran toward his car and was soon cutting through the dark night with flashing lights and the sound of a siren.

Mountainside, like the other communities in his county, were served by volunteer fire fighters and he was one of them so when he reached the main street of the little town it was already crowded with dozens of trained volunteers and the Mountainside fire trucks had been joined by some from Wichita and other assisting communities.

His heart sank when he saw that leaping flames were shooting up from the back of the building. Thank God Hart wasn’t in there! The fire was climbing right up into her second floor rooms.

Grabbing his gear, he ran toward the center of action and began to help with the hose. Water pressure in Mountainside wasn’t exactly something to brag about and he couldn’t feel too optimistic about saving the dried out wood
that had framed the old building.

“Mostly we’re just trying to keep it from spreading, sheriff,” his long-time friend Jason Pitcher, fire chief and mayor of Mountainside, both of which were unpaid positions, called to him. “This could take all the buildings in this block down.”

He nodded, not bothering to answer as he took his part in the work chain. The buildings were all old, dating back to the early 20
th
century, and most of them connected in a nearly continuous line. It didn’t look good.

The red and yellow flames glowed brightly against the dark cold night and high winds sent them into furious activity. Fighting fires in the powerful gusts of an Oklahoma windstorm was not a positive scenario.

He felt someone tugging at his back and heard shouting that barely reached above the noise around him and tried to shake off the intruder who was interrupting his concentrated efforts. Then he recognized Tommy Benson’s frantic voice, “My sister is in there. Let me through. I’ve got to get to her!”

Realizing that Tommy was trying to push through the fire lines, Alistair released his part in controlling the hose to a friend, and stepped back to grab Tommy and pull him back, yelling first to the fire chief. “Hart’s not in there, Jason, she’s safe at my house.”

Tommy began to pummel frantically against Alistair’s arms and face until other men had to pull him off. “She’s safe, Tommy,” Alistair yelled. “She was scared to stay alone tonight because somebody broke in. She’s sound asleep out at my house. “

“You’re lying!” Tommy struggl
ed against restraining hands. “You’re just saying that ‘cause you want her to die in there so you’ll get all her money.”

“Hey, Tommy,” Jason yelled. “We’re trying to fight a fire here.”

“Then go in after her!” Save her if you won’t let me do it.”

Jason looked inquiringly at Alistair. He grimaced, not wanting to risk firefighters
’ lives in a futile effort to get to a woman who wasn’t there. “Call her,” he told Jason. “She’s number 3 on my speed dial.” He tossed his personal phone to the fire chief, who immediately hit that number and within minutes was talking to Hart, trying to explain to her their concern that she was within a blazing building. Once he’d reassured himself, he nodded to the others to release Tommy Benson and handed the phone to him. “Talk to your sister. She’ll tell you she’s all right.”

After that Alistair didn’t have time to concern himself with either Hart or her brother. He was too busy helping to keep Mountainside’s small downtown from burning to the ground.

Startled from sleep by the fire chief’s call, Hart dressed hastily in the jeans and pullover she’d brought in her bag, but didn’t bother to even comb her hair. Anxious to get into Mountainside, she searched through a drawer in the kitchen, almost as though she knew what was kept there, found the keys to the pickup truck that was the sheriff’s personal property. She didn’t take time to try to figure if she really knew that the keys would be in the drawer or that the pickup would be out in the big red barn, or if these were just logical places to search.

She found her way uneasily along darkened roads, once or twice having to turn back and retrace her tracks, trying to remember the way they’d come last night when Alistair drove her out.

Not only her little apartment, the only home she had, was in danger, but all Mrs. Harris’ possessions as well. In some way she felt like the caretaker for the belongings of an old woman she didn’t remember ever having met.

In the darkness of a wind-whipped night she could barely see the plumes of smoke above the downtown, but it scented the air and as she drove into Mountainside, she could see the bright spewing of flames.

She choked as much from the sense of horrific loss as from the wind-thinned smoke as she parked the pickup behind a host of o
thers and raced toward the fire, pushing her way forcefully through the crowd until restrained by the town’s constables.

“Tommy,” one of them called. “Here’s Hart.”

Her brother, looking distraught with his thinning hair crammed down under a cap and shivering in a jacket inadequate for the cold, rushed over to take her in his arms. “I was so afraid you were up there, Hart,” he said.

She hadn’t thought to grab a coat and now the freezing wind pierced her body even while he hugged her. “I’m fine, Tommy. This is awful, but at least no one was inside.”

Alistair joined them, wrapping a huge smoky coat, his own or someone else’s, around her. She welcomed the warmth it offered. “We’ve got the fire confined,” he said, hardly recognizable with his face blackened with soot. “But I’m afraid your apartment is a total loss. That’s where the fire started.”

“Did you leave the stove on?” Tommy asked, his forehead creased in a frown. “Or maybe the dryer caused the fire
; that happens sometimes.”

“I don’t have a washer or dryer,” Hart protested. “And I’m sure we turned off the fire before we left.”

Alistair nodded agreement, but it wasn’t until Tommy stepped away to ask questions of the busy fire chief that he whispered to Hart, “I’m afraid it was arson. Somebody dumped gasoline on your floor and set it on fire. That’s what Jason says.”

She didn’t even ask who Jason was, but just stared up at him. “Why would anybody do such a terrible thing?”

He reached down to pull her into a hug, kissed her gently, then laughingly tried to remove the smudges he’d left on her face. “Hey, lady, you look like you’ve been fighting a fire.”

She sniffed, tears coming to her eyes. “My favorite book,” she said. “
Take Three Tenses
was on my bedside table. I’ve had it for as long as I can remember.” Then she gave a little laugh. “Which isn’t very long.”

“I’m just thankful you’re all right,” he whispered.

Tommy pushed him aside. “I’m taking her home with me,” he insisted.

Hart tried to protest, but Alistair nodded agreement. “That’d probably be best for
now. I’m going to be involved in  investigations, but I’ll pick you up later,” he told her, then rushed off to join the cluster of firefighters who were seeing that the final embers were doused.

“That’s what he thinks,” Tommy muttered, pulling her away from the crowd and down the street to where he was parked.

“But Tommy, I’ve got Alistair’s pickup over there.” She pointed, but he opened the door to his own pickup and lifted her inside.

“He can take care of that.” He edged away from the crowd and down the short streets to his home while Hart huddled on the seat, wishing she could have left on her  own.