Birdie's Nest (6 page)

“Yes, please enlighten me, young woman.”

She repeated all she’d told the doctor and the detective.

General King didn’t interrupt, but his expression wasn’t hard to read. He didn’t believe a word she’d said. He turned and motioned Detective Ethan over. He joined them and handed her pistol to King. “Explain this side arm to us.”

Birdie leaned forward and took the Ruger. “Be happy to.” She pushed the lever to release the magazine and set it in her lap. She then checked to see if the chamber was empty. “This is called a semi-automatic because when it’s cocked, a shell slides into the chamber, and it doesn’t have to be cocked again. The shooter simply continues to pull the trigger until the magazine is empty. This gun is small, for concealment, and I can carry it in a holster under my skirts. It’s not what I’d use if on duty.” She chuckled. “Of course, I don’t wear dresses while on duty, unless I’m undercover, but when I wear pants, I carry a nine millimeter.” She picked up the magazine. “The clip holds seventeen or nineteen rounds, and, in combat situations, I always have several extras already loaded.”

Detective Ethan’s mouth hung open, but General King’s thinned, and his eyes narrowed to slits. “Young woman, women do not wear pants. At least well-bred young ladies don’t.”

Birdie bristled. “I assure you, General, I am a well-thought-of woman. In my time period, women do wear pants, especially those in law enforcement. And I earned that star you’re keeping from me by working as a Waco policeman and then six years as a state trooper. One hundred-fifty men applied for my ranger position, and I got it so that should tell you something about my qualifications.” She wasn’t about to mention how the men who’d lost out on the job despised her and resented the fact women were allowed in the ranks.

He threw up his hands. “Bah! This is all hogwash. I don’t believe a word you’re saying.” He stood. “Let’s go, Ethan.”

“Wait. Listen to me. You’re going to retire next year and will live out your life on your property in Sulphur Springs. You’ll write a well-read history of the Texas Rangers, one sold at the Ranger Hall of Fame in Waco.”

He studied her intently so she continued.

“In 1935 the state legislature placed the rangers in with the highway patrol and formed The Department of Public Safety.”

“Highway patrol?”

“Yes, you know, to monitor speed limits on highways. Cars in the future can go over one hundred miles per hour, and speed limits are set at seventy-five—up to eighty-five on interstates.”

“I’m sorry Miss Braxton, but I can’t believe this outrageous tale.” He turned to leave.

“Well, believe this, I bet I can outshoot you or at least shoot as well as you can. Find a place and set a time to let me prove it.”

He studied her for a moment.

“All right. I’ll send word when we’ve set something up.”

Birdie sighed with relief. “Thank you.” She slipped the magazine back into the Ruger but didn’t throw a round into the chamber. “I assume you’re going to let me keep my gun.”

“Yes, but don’t shoot anyone.”

She huffed. “I assure you…”

He chuckled. “I’m keeping the star. If you outshoot me, you can have it.”

Birdie turned and strode into the hospital, her spirits higher than they’d been since she’d awakened in this century.

Bored to tears, she harassed the staff trying to find something to do. “I’ll even mop floors.”

“Miss,” exclaimed one of the cleaning staff. “I can’t let you do that. Why not sit in the lobby and read?”

Birdie settled in the lounge and had started on page one of
Jane Eyre
again when an attractive middle-aged woman approached the reception desk. Her deep purple dress accented her silver streaked dark hair, and her blue eyes crackled with vitality. A big straw hat with black and purple plumes sat off center on her head. They danced as she marched up to the desk. With her was a young woman, probably her teenage daughter, as they bore a close resemblance. “I’m looking for Miss Braxton’s room.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Pencil in hand, the receptionist asked, “May I have your name?”

“Of course. I’m Mrs. Hamilton Lockhart. My son, Tad, is the one who pulled Miss Braxton from the river. I’m here to take her home with me as she may be a distant relative.”

The attendant beamed. “Wonderful. Let me get the doctor, so he can sign the necessary paperwork.” She hustled away.

At this news, Birdie rose and approached the older woman. “Ma’am, I’m Birdie Braxton.” She held out her hand.

Mrs. Lockhart turned. Sharp eyes studied Birdie from her toes to the loose hair she’d brushed out earlier this morning. Her intelligent study missed nothing, and Birdie waited for her to form a conclusion. She didn’t have to wait long. The older woman beamed, took Birdie’s hand and covered it with her other one. “Delighted, my dear.” She indicated to the pretty young woman at her side. “This is my daughter, Bethany.”

“Hello.” Bursting with energy and without a shy bone in her body, the girl danced over and slipped an arm around Birdie’s waist. “Tad said you don’t have a place to stay, so we want you to come home with us.”

That’s what Mrs. Lockhart had said to the desk clerk, but Birdie wanted to make sure.

“Have you thought this through, ma’am? You don’t know me. I could be a murderer or worse.”

Mrs. Lockhart patted her hand and before releasing it. “I’m a pretty good judge of character, young woman, and I believe you’re harmless. You need a place to stay. We have plenty of room.”

“Thank you. I’ll be happy to work for my board.”

“We’ll talk about that later.”

Dr. Franks appeared, and Birdie signed the dismissal forms. “You let me know if you start having headaches again, young lady.”

“I will. Thank you for my care. Please thank Nurse Taylor for me. I’ll pay my bill as soon as I get a job.”

He beamed. “I’m sure you will, but there is no rush.”

Mrs. Lockhart added. “Let’s get your things and be on our way.”

She pivoted in front of them. “This is all I have.”

“Well, seems we need to stop by the mercantile before we go home.”

Thirty minutes later Birdie found herself inside a spacious department store. She could only stare at the bounty of merchandise on shelves, items in wood and glass cabinets, and arrangements of furniture on one side of the large structure. Large ceiling fans stirred the warm air as people bustled around selecting their purchases.

“Come along, dear. This way.”

Birdie followed Mrs. Lockhart along the aisle. An hour later, with the counter loaded with what the older woman insisted she needed—two everyday dresses, two church dresses with a pair of summer oxfords to match, underwear, boots, a couple of skirts and three blouses, two dress hats, and a work hat. Birdie even talked the older woman into adding a pair of dungarees to the stack.

Bethany’s mouth fell open. “Mother! You won’t ever let me get a pair. Why can she wear them, and I can’t?” She stomped a foot. “It’s not fair.”

Birdie picked the pants up off the pile. “I don’t want to cause problems. I’ll put them back.”

“No, no need.” Olivia Lockhart turned to her daughter. One dark brow arched, she studied the girl from head to foot. Under the perusal, Bethany’s reddened face paled.

“I’m sorry, Mother. That was childish of me, but I so want a pair.”

“Since you had the good grace to apologize, I concede.” She shook a finger. “But I better never find you wearing them in mixed company.”

Bethany squealed and threw her arms around her mother’s neck. “Thank you, thank you.” She rushed off and came back to add her selection to their purchases. As the sales clerk rang them up, Bethany moved closer to Birdie and squeezed her waist, her smile conspiratorial and engaging. She’d be shocked and surprised at the fashions in the future. The thought made Birdie chuckle, and she put an arm around the girl and squeezed back.

How Birdie would ever repay the older woman she didn’t know, but Birdie would find a way. Loaded down with packages wrapped in brown paper, they approached the carriage. The young ranch hand who’d accompanied the Lockhart women stored them in a compartment in the back and helped them board.

Birdie viewed 1890 Waco with different eyes this trip. Yesterday, she’d hoped to see something familiar; today she drank in all the differences—the wooden sidewalks, a saloon over on Franklin, the train depot, awnings on windows of stores to ward off the heat rays. Her gaze darted from place to place and noted Cooper’s Grocery on Mary Street and the Pacific Hotel on Franklin. As they neared the suspension bridge, she observed the toll-keeper’s cottage with its picket fence. In her time period, a fee wasn’t collected when crossing the bridge. In fact, only foot traffic was allowed across the historic structure.

She focused her attention on the spot Detective Ethan said she’d been fished from the water. Her skin tingled and the hairs on the back of her neck crawled leaving a feeling of intense anxiety. She shuddered. As close as she sat to the other two women, it was impossible to keep her reaction from being noticed.

“Are you cold, dear? We can fetch the blanket we always carry.”

“No, I just had an odd sensation wash over me.” The desire to step onto the banks of the Brazos was strong. Was the river her way back home? Something had brought her to this time period, but she couldn’t imagine what—the eddy in the river, the bolt of lightening, the hit on her head or being near dead from drowning. Maybe God had sent her back for some divine purpose, but no… God didn’t need her to carry out his plans. He was all-powerful and could move mountains with a sweep of his hand. Maybe this was all a dream or a coma, and she’d wake up back home in her bed. A horrible thought struck her. Was she dead? Was she in Heaven? It couldn’t be Hell because it was too beautiful.

She couldn’t breathe. Her gaze rested on the banks of the Brazos. If it was the key, she had to try, didn’t she? She tried to resist, but a compelling desire to stop overrode her sense. She nodded toward the bank. “Can we pull over for a moment?”

“Of course.” The older woman leaned forward and tapped the man on the shoulder. “Pull over, Hank. We want to get out for a minute.”

He stopped the buggy and helped Birdie down. She strode to the river’s edge and watched the water ripple by, traveling southeast towards the gulf. With each step, the corset she wore tightened, threatening to choke off air supply. She drew in deep breaths of air, as deep as she could without expanding her abdomen. The desire to go home overwhelmed her, and she bit back a cry. She had to try. She stepped out of her slippers and patted her pocket to make sure her gun was still with her. It wouldn’t do to leave a weapon like hers back in this time period.

Birdie didn’t really believe in time travel, but she wasn’t crazy, and it was impossible for anyone to pull off a stunt like rebuilding a 1890s city to be so real. Yes, movie sets could be made believable, but no way could they have a cast of characters as large as the one she’d seen today. She took a deep breath, lifted her skirts almost to her knees and started toward the water.

“Birdie! Miss Braxton! What are you doing?” Mrs. Lockhart’s voice became shriller with each word. “No!”

Footsteps pounded on the grass behind her. Birdie walked farther into the water, stepping up the pace. Just as Hank hit the water, she threw herself forward and using the breaststroke, moved into the current. She drew in a deep breath and dove under. Visibility was poor. She could only see three inches in front of her. Fish veered around her and water grass waved as she passed. Her skirt and petticoat soaked up the river and dirt and drew her slowly down. Her feet touched the bottom. Lungs bursting for air, she bent her knees and shoved upward. Her head broke water.

The current had carried her almost to the bridge and Birdie struggled against its strength to make it to the shore. Hank saw her and shouted. “There she is.” He ran along the bank to reach her, came to a screeching halt, twirled a rope over his head and tossed it toward her. She could have made it, but why bother? She grabbed hold, and he pulled her toward the shore.

Soaked, filthy, and still in 1890, she stood and tried to wring some of the water from her dress. The poor garment couldn’t take another dunking, and she didn’t have an additional nice dress. She sighed and her shoulders slumped. Did her failed attempt mean she was stuck here… forever?

Olivia Lockhart bustled over carrying the blanket, which she wrapped around Birdie’s shoulders and rubbed to soak up some of the moisture. She clucked like a mother hen. “What were you thinking, young woman? You could have drowned.”

“I had to give it a try... to go back home to my time.” She flipped hair out of her face. “Obviously it didn’t work.”

“Now, now, dear. Everything will be all right. You’ll see.” She tugged on Birdie’s arm. “Come along. We want to get home before dark.”

Bethany handed Birdie her slippers. She didn’t put them on right away. She’d wait until she dried out some. Bethany sat up front with Hank so her mother wouldn’t be squeezed so close to Birdie and get wet. They crossed the bridge, and Birdie spotted the location where she believed her house stood in the future. Homesickness engulfed her. A large lump formed in her stomach, and she closed her eyes until the sensation passed. What was she going to do? She couldn’t throw herself in the Brazos every time she crossed it. They’d lock her up in one of those sanatoriums for sure.

Mrs. Lockhart patted her leg. “After a hot bath and a good meal, things will look better.”

Birdie could only nod. Would she? Only time would tell.

Chapter Four

Birdie woke to the sound of robins and cardinals chirping outside her window. Dawn sunlight cast a ray across the bedroom wallpaper with flowers creeping up a trellis. Her sleep had been fitful. The feather mattress wrapped itself around her, making it difficult to roll over. She had to literally lift her body to turn, which resulted in tangling the long nightgown about her. The breeze through the open window wasn’t enough to cool her until after midnight. She supposed her body was too accustomed to air conditioning. Then she’d fallen into a restless sleep. But, the wakeful time lying in the dark allowed her to think, to plan. She had to accept her fate and make the best of it. Somehow, she’d traveled back in time to 1890 and it appeared she was stuck here forever. There was no way the Texas Rangers would allow her to be a part of their regiment in this time, but she’d find a way to use her skills and build a life for herself.